


Everyone But You

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (how is that not already a tag???), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Apocalypse (Good Omens), Crowley and Aziraphale dont meet on the wall, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Egregious When Harry Met Sally References, Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Succubus Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: It was at his 60th centennial review—Crowley had prepared a grandiose speech about his work in the Cold War (not him at all), gas prices, and the M-25—when Beelzebub walked into their office and slapped a file into his hands before slouching behind their desk. Which, not-so-shockingly, was made of bones.“A seduction?” Crowley said, looking down at the file with a frown. He hadn’t been given a seduction in nearly two thousand years.“Not just any seduction,” Beelzebub said as they flopped into their chair and folded their hands in their lap.Crowley flipped open the file and then nearly dropped it. “You want me to seduce an angel? Why?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 420
Kudos: 1343
Collections: Amazing Good Omens, Bittersweet Good Omens, Fluffy Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> big shout out to @poetic_nonsense and amberm7 who beta'ed every iteration of this
> 
> mild cw: allusion to instances of nonexplicit past dubcon (Crowley was a succubus so....yeah)

Crawly slithered up the wall at the eastern gate, ready to survey Adam and Eve in their trek across the desert. He saw the angel to his right. _Michael._ He didn’t remember much about Heaven before the fall, only vague impressions of white light. But he did remember Michael a bit, remembered all the archangels really. Gabriel had been a right tosser.

The archangel looked down her nose at him. Shifting into human form he said, “Well that went down like a—”

And then he was abruptly discorporated by a flash of angelic lightning.

Ah, right. He’d never liked Michael. 

* * *

Crawly had hoped, after doing good work in the Garden, that he’d get an assignment topside immediately. But, _apparently_ , being discorporated within seven days of being given a body was generally frowned upon and, according to Beelzebub, warranted desk duty.

For 2000 years.

Desk duty was The Worst. When he’d agreed to join up with Lucifer, the horned bastard with ideas, he hadn’t exactly pictured himself noting basic sins in Hastur’s file in order to document the Duke’s prowess. Stupid _and_ boring. Desk duty was being stuck at a cramped desk that he wasn’t allowed to organize. It was 20 hour shifts in rickety chairs while water dripped somewhere and the clawing damp made your corporation ache. So when the two thousand year sentence was up, Crawly did what he did best which was wheedle his way into favor.

“All I’m saying,” Crawly said during his centennial review with Beelzebub, “Is that you need me. I’m the original tempter! I tempted before temptation was a thing. You gotta admit that’s pretty sexy of me.”

Beelzebub crossed their arms over their chest, leaning back in their throne of bones - why did Beelzebub love bones so much—and their eyes flicked to Dagon who stood impassively at their side before returning to Crawly. “Perhapzz you have a point. Hazztur is very poor at temptation.”

Crawly bit his tongue. He wanted to say “of course Hastur is bad at temptation. He looks like his whole body has trenchfoot.” But he also knew Beelzebub absolutely loved Hastur’s style and Crawly wanted to get out of the dank basement that was Hell and see some sunshine again. 

And that’s how Crawly got his official designation as Earth’s resident succubus. Well, incubus. Well both. Human gender was ridiculous.

* * *

During his first assignment, Crawly realized humans were rather put off by his name. One of them even said he sounded like something that would squirm at their feet! Very offensive. He’d sucked a little extra soul out of that one and changed his name to Crowley. 

It didn’t take too long—just around 200 years—for Crowley to realize that Earth was everything he remembered and more. Humans were endlessly creative. The food! The drink! Their propensity for revelry did half his job for him. Humans wanted sex _all the time_. He barely had to waggle his fingers to get someone into bed. He didn’t even mind the sex bit that much. Wasn’t half bad at it either. Though sometimes he just knocked the humans out and reported the job complete without so much as a glimpse of nether region. 

Usually only when he was tired! Or when he had something better to do! 

Crowley found he liked the lead up to the whole business much more than the act itself, the filthy whispering in ears, the brushes of a hand, bedroom eyes and hot breath on a neck over too many drinks. That part was fun. And it was usually the lead up that turned the soul. A priest wasn’t about to be tempted off the path of God by a good soul-sucking shag. No, it was the memory of a warm hand on his thigh or the sway of hips that the priest would remember. It was those things that would cause him to falter again and again and again until he was so tainted by lust that only Hell would take him. 

Crowley never failed an assignment (even if some of his reports were a bit...embellished). In fact, he did them so well that he started to get other assignments. Not only sexual seductions, but larger things. Tempt an emperor into not passing a certain decree. Incite a riot. Sow discord in a monastery. He found that work suited him much better. Trying to act sexy all the time was exhausting. By the 2nd century, Crowley was relatively on his own, trusted to make his own assignments, spread evil best he could.

And Crowley?

Well, Crowley had found a way to let most of his work be done for him. See, humans were as capable of good as they were of evil. So Crowley set about tweaking the world here and there just to make people angrier and angrier and more creative in their outbursts—because that’s how wars started. And Hell loved wars.

It was at his 60th centennial review—Crowley had prepared a grandiose speech about his work in the Cold War (not him at all), gas prices, and the M-25—when Beezlebub walked into their office and slapped a file into his hands before slouching behind their desk. Which, not-so-shockingly, was made of bones.

“A seduction?” Crowley said, looking down at the file with a frown. He hadn’t been given a seduction in nearly two thousand years. 

“Not just any seduction,” Beelzebub said as they flopped into their chair and folded their hands in their lap. 

Crowley flipped open the file and then nearly dropped it. “You want me to seduce an _angel_? Why?”

The flies around Beelzebub’s head began to buzz angrily. “Since when izz it your place to quezztion your azzignments?”

Crowley grit his teeth and closed his eyes. He’d put in 2000 years of desk work, 3000 of admirable seductions and over a thousand of truly inspired demonic work. “Yes. You’re right. It’s only…”

Crowley cast about for a good excuse as Beelzebub raised an expectant eyebrow. “My eyes! Yeah, that’s right. Give me away. All snakey.”

Beelzebub looked unimpressed. Crowley was able to disguise his eyes from humans, just a small burst of power and they all thought his eyes were a normal hazel. That trick wouldn't work on an angel. But _actually_ disguising them, completing his transformation from snake to human would use nearly all of his power. He wouldn’t be able to tempt or wile or do _anything_. And Beelzebub knew that.

“Make them look human,” Beelzebub said with a wave of their hand. Crowley swallowed and worked his jaw. 

“And an angel’s ability to sense evil? What about that?” 

“That’ll be taken care of. This is coming all the way from the bottom. So you have our...full support,” Beelzebub said, staring him down with their black eyes and Crowley deflated.

“Do angels even have souls I can consume?” Crowley asked, more to himself than anything, but Beelzebub found it fit to answer.

“We’re not after hiz soul. Fuck him and call it a day.”

Well, that was rather crass.

Just another assignment, Crowley told himself. 

Another assignment that would probably get him unpleasantly discorporated. And then stuck at a desk for another 2000 years.

* * *

Crowley sat in his flat, sipping whiskey with his feet up on his fashionable glass coffee table as he flipped through the file.

Aziraphale, Principality.

Assignment: European Continent

Alias: A.Z. Fell

Crowley scowled as he looked over the file. It seemed like the angel had been stationed on Earth since the Flood, nearly as long as Crowley himself. It was surprising they’d never run into each other given that Crowley was also stationed in Europe. 

Interests: Books, wine, history, art, foreign food.

 _Food_. Seemed a bit gluttonous for an angel. Crowley didn’t even go in for food very often. Perhaps this Aziraphale would be easier to tempt than he thought. 

The photo that accompanied the file showed a man that Crowley could only call cherubic in appearance. Aziraphale wasn’t a Cherubim, but that didn’t account for his pudgy body or pink cheeks. Or even the shock of blond curly hair over his soft face.

He looked over the address of Aziraphale’s current residence and resolved to make a visit in the morning. It was a bookshop so he wouldn’t be out of place if he popped in at random, maybe browsed a bit, introduced himself. Laid some groundwork, so to speak. 

He’d also like to get a look at this “Aziraphale” in person, see what he was working with. 

Crowley hoped he’d remember how to do this whole seduction thing. It was like riding a bike. Probably.

* * *

Getting ready to leave his flat the next day only provided a small challenge. How did one go about seducing people these days? Crowley had seen films, knew about going to bars and dancing and the like but...none of that suited him.

Slipping on his sunglasses—even if he’d have to change his eyes, it didn’t mean he was going to give up on _fashion_ —Crowley sighed and left his apartment. 

He reached the stoop of the bookshop and sighed again. With significant effort, he transformed his eyes into what he knew to be a human hazel color, immediately feeling the drain on his power. If he snapped his fingers now, he couldn’t summon anything bigger than a penny. Or more complex than a penny.

Hastur was probably laughing himself to death in Hell as Beelzebub let him in on this farce.

Crowley opened the door to the bookshop and the bell tinkled, announcing his arrival. Honestly, Crowley hadn’t put much thought into what he expected the bookshop to look like until he stepped inside and was nearly suffocated by the smell of dust and old paper. The thing was overflowing with books, antique furniture jammed into every corner and covered with thick tomes as if the owner had forgotten he even owned the now-hidden chair or table. Even the ancient rug covering the floor had a few books on it in unkempt stacks.

“One moment please,” a posh voice said from somewhere beyond the shelves.

Crowley tried his best to look alluring. It had, admittedly, been a while since he had done that and perhaps he was a bit out of practice. But he knew it was something like: a jut of his hips and a tilt of the neck and the just right fall of hair over his face. He leaned one hand on the table next to him. See? Riding a bike.

Aziraphale appeared between two overladen shelves and Crowley had to suppress a laugh. The picture hadn’t done his cherub-like image justice, his cloud white hair and pink cheeks making Crowley think of renaissance paintings. He was also about a century out of fashion with his tan waistcoat—and a _pocket watch_ —over a long-sleeved white shirt and tartan bow-tie. 

Tucking his hands behind his back, the angel gave him a mild smile like he was putting on the face of the most unassuming creature in existence. “Can I help you?”

And whatever Crowley had expected—the drag of a gaze over the long lines of his body, the lingering look at his jaw—never came. Nothing. Just polite interest, eyebrows raised and waiting. Disappointed, Crowley moved to stand up straight and bumped into the table, knocking over one of the taller stacks of books and watching with horror as a dozen or more books fell to the carpet.

The angel was by his side faster than humanly possible. “Please be careful,” Mr. Fell said, reprimand clear in his tone as he knocked Crowley’s hands away when he tried to help gather the books.

He was making a mess of things. 

The angel looked up at him, accusatory, as he put the stack back on the table. He had nice eyes, Crowley decided. But other than that he was a completely unremarkable round-faced, chubby man in old-fashioned clothes. Not exactly a catch. 

Crowley took a step back and gave him an embarrassed smile. “I’m just here to browse. I was in the neighborhood and I’m always in the market for books.”

Aziraphale’s nostrils flared, one hand coming down atop the stack of books like a mother hen protecting her chicks. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Or at least that’s what Crowley thought he said. The words were so quiet that Crowley could barely pick them up. Why would this angel own a shop if he didn’t want to sell anything?

“I promise I’ll be more careful,” Crowley said, holding up his hands in a don’t shoot gesture and giving Aziraphale his most winning smile. The angel’s jaw ticked.

“Of course, yes,” he said, gesturing at the stacks. “I’m closing in an hour so mind your time please.”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest and popped one hip out. It was a sensuous move that had gotten a good two dozen targets to approach him. 

Aziraphale looked unimpressed.

“Any suggestions of where I should start? You’ve got quite the selection and I wouldn’t want to...disturb anything.”

The angel cocked one eyebrow as if to say _too late for that_. “You can find the poetry to your right. The fiction to your left. Nonfiction is behind you. If I don’t have it in stock, I may be able to find it for you. I’ll be at my desk”—he gestured to the right—“if you have questions.”

With that, he turned on his heel and bustled off, truly the embodiment of every fussy librarian in existence. Crowley hadn’t noticed before but he did have quite the arse. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. He did look very...plush.

Listening to the soft footfalls of the angel’s oxfords as he retreated through the shelves, Crowley looked up at the shop’s slightly domed ceiling. The place might be dim and dusty, but Crowley could see the appeal. A little. It was crowded like Hell, and disorganized like Hell, but it was also cozy and warm. There was a sense of _home_ that even Crowley’s flat hadn’t managed to attain.

Making show of browsing, Crowley hemmed and hawed his way through the fiction section, noticing that this angel had such a wild of array of books that it was nearly impossible to determine his sorting method. It seemed the Dewey Decimal system was not for him. 

Crowley had just picked up a collection of John Donne when the angel appeared at his side and plucked it from his fingers. “Apologies, but we are closing.”

Aziraphale placed the book back on the shelf and faced Crowley expectantly.

Ignoring the angel’s clear desire for him to leave, Crowley said, “Quite an interesting place you’ve got here. Prime real estate.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew sharp as his mouth folded into a thin line. “If you are with Mr. Johansson, you can tell him—once again—that I do _not_ wish to sell and he should stop sending his goons to attempt to coerce me.”

Shocked by that little tirade, Crowley had to take a moment to recover. “Erm, never heard of a Mr. Johansson. I was just trying to make conversation.”

The set of Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed minutely. “Oh. Well, please don’t.”

Aziraphale seemed to realize what he said and his hands came up in front of him, fluttering nervously. “Oh dear, that’s not—that was quite rude. You see I simply wish to close. I have business to attend to and—”

Crowley tucked his hands into his pockets and gave Aziraphale lazy smile. “How about you make it up to me by letting me take you for a drink?”

Smooth. Perfect. Crowley was back on the bike and riding it into the sunset.

Aziraphale’s face turned pink, but instead of looking flattered, he eyebrows drew together and his frown returned. “I may have been rude but there’s no need to be cruel.”

What?

“I’m just asking you to get a drink—”

“Please,” the angel said with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever you’re playing at—working with Mr. Johansson, trying to get an easy pull or what have you—I am not interested. Now leave my shop.”

Crowley gaped at him, feeling rather like a suffocating fish. “But—but—”

“I believe I asked you to leave,” Aziraphale said, cold and icy, eyes going flinty as he began to herd Crowley from the shop.

Crowley nearly tripped over his feet as he was practically pushed onto the stoop. 

“Thank you for your business,” Aziraphale said as if by rote because he surely didn’t mean it.

Crowley stared at the closed door as the open sign flipped to closed and wondered where things had gone so terribly wrong.

* * *

Crowley sat on his couch and stared at the open file, wracking his brain for the last time a seduction hadn’t gone to plan. Humans were so easy and when they didn’t feel like going to bed with him, he could use a little power to increase his allure and they always _did_ want to. He couldn’t do this with Aziraphale. He didn’t have his powers and even if he did, it was pretty likely an angel would sniff out a temptation in a heartbeat.

Flipping through the dossier, Crowley came to the photo again and stared at in consternation. He’d thought it was old surveillance but apparently the angel just dressed like that. How was he supposed to woo some old fuddy duddy obsessed with his books and who clearly hated social interaction?

He needed more intel.

* * *

It turned out stalking a Soho bookseller wasn’t all it cracked up to be. Taking up post in the cafe across from A.Z. Fell and Co. was monumentally boring. The angel might say he needed to close the shop because he had things to do but so far Crowley had only seen him leave the shop once and then return less than an hour later with a pastry bag. 

So really, all Crowley was doing was sitting in a comfortable armchair, staring out a window while pretending to read a book and growing more frustrated by the minute.

It had been three days! And Aziraphale hadn’t shown his face since the pastry trip on the first day. Crowley didn’t want to show up unannounced again lest he come off as desperate. He needed to arrange a natural run-in. Something where he could say _oh, don’t I know you? You’re that bookshop owner. How are you? Sorry I came on a little strong._ And then everything should be right as rain and Crowley could try again, maybe going a little slower this time.

He was deep in his thoughts and halfway through a sip of coffee when the bell to the cafe tinkled. Looking up, he spluttered, coffee dribbling down his chin as he took in the angel. He was wearing a long coat he seemed to fancy when leaving the shop and looking about the cafe with mild interest.

Crowley whisked his coffee away with a thought and then went through the exhausting ordeal of transforming his eyes before slipping off his sunglasses and joining the angel in line. 

Aziraphale was fiddling with his watch fob and humming quietly to himself, some melody that Crowley didn’t recognize. Feigning distraction, Crowley knocked into him with his elbow and then stepped back. Aziraphale turned to him, those storm cloud eyes locking on his, and then Crowley’s half step back turned into a stumble as he tripped and knocked one shoulder against the wall.

“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention,” he said, the words a crossways jumble as they left his mouth. That wasn’t exactly how he’d meant to sound. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind his ridiculous apology, hand going to Crowley’s elbow to steady him. “Are you alright? I seem to have done more damage than you have, my dear fellow.”

Crowley pulled away, the feel of Aziraphale’s hand on his forearm sending strange tingles up his arm. Was that an angel thing?

“Yeah, alright. That’s me. Alright,” Crowley stammered and Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together.

“You look very familiar,” he said thoughtfully and then the concerned expression melted into one of disdain. “Ah, yes, that flash fellow who mocked me.”

“Mocked you?” Crowley asked, realizing this conversation was quickly going off the rails. He was supposed to have knocked into Aziraphale, apologized, offered to buy his coffee and then made up some excuse to go to the bookshop again. 

The frustrated expression returned in full force. “You asked me to get a drink with you. With clearly lascivious intent. People who look like you are decidedly _not_ interested in middle-aged booksellers. I have lived long enough to know that for certain.”

“Look like me?” Well, now he was just repeating everything Aziraphale was saying.

Aziraphale turned back in the queue, rolling his eyes. “Don’t play coy. I’m sure people tell you how fashionable and handsome you are all the time. And I’m decidedly not interested.”

“Look, can we go back a bit?” Crowley began, a last second attempt at keeping the conversation going and _maybe_ restoring some sort of positive feeling between them. He’d mucked this right up. Why had he ever thought an angel would go for all those sleazy human seduction techniques? He should have waited, planned better. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I’m not good at this sort of thing?”

Aziraphale shot him an unimpressed look out of the corner of his eye. “Is that a question?”

“No,” Crowley said, shaking his head. He needed to do _better_. “I just thought, you know, you seemed interesting. All those books. And I’ve got a—er, rare book I’m in the market for and that seemed your cup of tea. I’d just thought we could talk about it.”

“A rare book?” Aziraphale said and Crowley could hear a thread of doubt in it. Oh yes this just might work. He’d gone about it all wrong. He’d just needed bait. And what better way to bait a bookseller than with a book.

“Yes, you see, I’ve been trying to track down…”—oh shit he needed a book— “a first edition of _Casino Royale_.”

Stupid book to pick. He already owned a first edition.

“Casino...Royale,” the angel repeated slowly, turning back to face him. They were almost at the till. “Fleming?”

“Yes. Er...I’ve been trying to find a first edition for ages.” It didn’t sound like a complete lie. Which was a relief.

“I don’t believe I have it in stock,” Aziraphale said carefully and Crowley felt the burgeoning feeling of success begin to fade. “But,” he added, drawing out the word slowly as if in thought, “I suppose I can take a look when I get back.”

“Really?” Crowley said, flashing a smile that he hoped didn’t look too predatory. He was a demon. Predatory was in his nature.

“Yes, er, do you have a card?” Aziraphale asked, hands going to his waistcoat as if to smooth it down. “I can ring you if I find anything.”

Schooling his features so as not to look too pleased, Crowley retrieved a card from his wallet and handed it over.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” Aziraphale read aloud. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, I suppose.”

Not a glowing response but Crowley began to feel he might just have his foot in the door.

They reached the front of the queue and Crowley said, “Would you at least let me get your coffee? An apology for making you uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale frowned but nodded. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

So Crowley paid for his drip coffee with cream and sugar and a blueberry scone before saying goodbye. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

He was rewarded with a hesitant smile. _That_ was progress. “Yes, thank you for the coffee, Mr. Crowley.”

“It’s just Crowley,” he replied, giving Aziraphale a wide grin that a nun had once called ‘dashing’ before turning so pink Crowley thought she might burst a blood vessel. 

Aziraphale hummed noncommittally and Crowley watched through the window as he crossed the street in a little half jog before disappearing into his bookshop.

This was a much better start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed byv[poetic_nonsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_nonsense/pseuds/poetic_nonsense), amberm7, and [tisziny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisziny/pseuds/tisziny) who all made me feel a great deal better about the state of chapter 2 and were amazing cheerleaders.
> 
> cue romcom shenanigans

Crowley went by the bookshop a week later. He hadn’t heard from the angel and that didn’t bode well for his assignment. He just needed to poke a bit. Say _Hey, it’s me. Anything about that Bond book_? But when he got to Soho, he found the shop closed. He peered at the listed hours and found himself laughing.

 _Open Mondays from 9-10 if it isn’t raining. If it is raining 1-2. Closed every third Tuesday and every second Thursday. Saturdays from 3 pm to 6 pm occasionally. Wednesdays and Fridays 8-10 unless otherwise occupied. Closed Sundays_. 

So the angel wasn’t just a bastard to him then. It seemed he was like this in general. 

While he could have knocked - or loitered - Crowley didn’t want to seem too keen. He’d already made that mistake and wasn’t about to make it again. So Crowley left the bookshop in peace and popped over to his favorite plant shop just to check in on Shakeida, the Venus flytrap who he kept thinking about buying. But he already had too many plants. Maybe when the next one finally disappointed him enough to warrant replacement.

Another week passed before Aziraphale called him.

Crowley was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, trying out parting his hair on the other side when the phone rang. Strands all in his face, he dashed into his office and picked up the receiver. “Crowley here.”

“Ah,” said a posh voice on the other line. There was something soothing about the tone. Probably some angel power. “This is Aziraphale from A.Z. Fell & Co. We met a few weeks - well, I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes, er,” Crowley stammered, pushing his hair back from his face. He hadn’t been ready for this. “Um...Aziraphale’s an interesting name.”

Aziraphale hummed distractedly, clearly not noticing Crowley’s distress. “Oh. Yes. Old family name. Dreadful, really.”

Crowley relaxed. He’d forgotten how obtuse Aziraphale was. Time for some charm. Just a little. “I think it’s quite nice. Aziraphale. Has a nice ring to it. Any luck on the book?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes, er, I was right and I don’t have it in stock but I’ve found a first edition from a seller in Paris. She’s quite the swindler and it’s vastly overpriced. It made me realize I didn’t ask after your price point.”

Crowley found himself twirling the cord in his finger and stopped abruptly, feeling a bit like Marcia Brady on the phone with her girlfriends. “Price isn’t really an object.”

Aziraphale hummed again and it sounded like he was writing something down, the soft shuffle of the receiver against his ear. “That’s good to know. However, I do think you might be best waiting for another copy. If you’re not in any rush, I can continue my search and find you a more reasonable price.”

Crowley leaned against his desk with one hand and found himself smiling. “No rush, Aziraphale,” he said in his most velvety tones. It came out as more of a croak. Turned out a thousand or so years without seducing anybody really rusted up the pipes.

“Right-o!” Aziraphale said, sounding completely unaffected. “I’ll call you when I know more.”

Before Crowley could even thank him, Aziraphale hung up. Crowley stared at his phone as the dial tone rang out. Very rude. 

Crowley smiled.

* * *

“Mr. Fell?” Crowley called, squeaking the door to the bookshop open. He’d come by on a Monday when it was raining, and, sure enough, the shop was open. 

He heard the scrape of a chair to his left and looked over to see Aziraphale at his desk, little round glasses perched on his nose, pen still in hand as he stood abruptly. “Mr. Crowley,” he said, not quite warm but not exactly a dismissal.

Crowley would call that growth.

He stepped up into the shop as Aziraphale came to a stop in front of him, essentially hemming him in barely a meter from the door. Ah, not so welcoming as he thought. To be fair, Crowley had nearly damaged his books. And been a bit of a prick.

Closing his umbrella, Crowley gestured at the umbrella stand and coat rack by the door. “Mind if I—”

Aziraphale pursed his lips but gestured for him to go ahead. He looked like he’d rather have a tooth pulled than have Crowley stay for another moment, but Crowley had to push through. 

“My apologies, I haven’t had much of an opportunity to continue my search for your _Casino Royale_. I did say I would call when I had an update,” Aziraphale explained, as if the information would get Crowley to leave.

Crowley bit his cheek to keep from smiling. What a delightful bastard. Where was the kind angel soul Crowley had expected? Certainly not here.

“Yes, but,” Crowley said, trying to sound apologetic as he revealed the package he had tucked under his arm. “I actually have my own book I’m looking to sell. And as you are, in fact, a purveyor of rare books, I thought I should stop by.”

Aziraphale’s face immediately lit up and it was like seeing a different person. The polite, dismissive mask fell away and he held out his hands as a blinding smile spread over his face. Seemingly realizing himself, he schooled his features into something more calm and cleared his throat. “May I?”

Crowley handed him the box. Crowley had thought long and hard about what sort of book he should bring. He wanted something inoffensive. Something that would say to Aziraphale _look, I can be trusted_. And so he settled on: 

“Winnie the Pooh. The first two books. They’re fairly old but not first edition. I was hoping you could give me an estimate.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, hands stilled atop the box Crowley had brought the books in. “Winnie the Pooh? _You_ brought me Winnie the Pooh books.”

“Is that a problem?” Crowley asked, beginning to squirm under Aziraphale’s incredulity. He’d thought children’s books would be a good idea. Safe and innocent. And now Aziraphale was looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

“No, it’s just...you’re after _Casino Royale_. And you’re...well, I suppose I wouldn’t think someone like you would own any Milne,” Aziraphale said, seeming to get a hold of himself as he set the box down on the nearest empty surface.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” Crowley said, deciding not to be offended by that little comment. He took a step closer to watch as Aziraphale unboxed the books.

Aziraphale glanced at him, nervous and quick, so Crowley kept a few feet between them. This really was going to be a seduction by inches, wasn’t it? 

Crowley suddenly regretted the hundreds of seductions he’d skipped out on. It would be helpful to have more to reference. Maybe even a single one of those would have been this bloody difficult.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath, hands hovering in the air above the box. “Oh, these are lovely. Fantastic condition. Where did you buy them?”

Crowley had bought them nearly a century ago when they first came out because he thought the bear on the cover was cute. But he couldn’t exactly say that now. And he was definitely _never_ going to admit that to anybody - angel _or_ demon. “Picked ‘em up a while ago.”

Aziraphale gave him another dubious look but didn’t say anything.

“Would you mind overmuch if I inspected them?” He looked like he was going to do it regardless of Crowley’s answer.

“You can do whatever you’d like with them,” Crowley said smoothly, leaning closer to Aziraphale in a subtle attempt to convey physical interest. The angel smelled of bergamot and cocoa. Crowley bit his lip. It was a nice smell, warm and homey and somehow suiting the angel.

Aziraphale was so focused on the books, he didn’t seem to notice Crowley’s proximity - or his less than subtle sniffing - lifting the box and starting towards the back of the shop before pausing. “Would you like to come with me?”

“You mean I get to watch?” Crowley asked, his voice laden with innuendo. He winced. Ah shit, he was supposed to be dialing that back.

“Only if you like that sort of thing,” Aziraphale replied distractedly and Crowley thanked his lucky stars that the man was so oblivious.

After passing through stacks upon stacks of ancient looking books, Aziraphale led him into a room with several bureaus of what looked like card catalogues and a long table with implements Crowley didn’t recognize. Probably for book restoring or something.

“This is where I restore the more damaged books I receive,” Aziraphale said, as if he was reading Crowley’s mind, but Crowley was pretty sure angels couldn’t do that. 

The angel slipped on a pair of gloves and carefully removed the first book, setting it on a mat on the table.

Aziraphale zeroed in on the book and opened it carefully, turning the pages with an intense focus that caused Crowley’s own anxiety to patter about hopelessly trying to latch onto something that would keep his attention. Something besides the way the angel’s soft blonde hair lit up like a halo in the low light of the back room which was strange and shouldn’t be holding his attention anyway.

“You been doing this long?” Crowley asked. He wouldn’t fidget. He _wouldn’t._

Without looking up, Aziraphale answered, “Quite some time.”

“Did you always want to be a bookseller?” 

_What kind of stupid, inane question was that?_

Not noticing Crowley’s personal crisis, Aziraphale finished with the first book and set it aside, pulling out the second volume which received the same careful treatment. “No. However, I find it quite suits me.”

Crowley watched as his delicate fingers slipped between the pages, the way the tip of his pink tongue poked out between his lips as his eyes scanned each illustration. There was something so...so...

“Yeah, it does,” Crowley said softly before he thought better of it. It made Aziraphale look up and Crowley met his unreadable blue eyes. He thought he saw a flicker of _something_ but it disappeared before he could name it.

“Well, that’s…” Aziraphale returned his gaze to the book in his hand and replaced it in the box, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Right. These are very nice. I’m sure you could get two or three thousand for the set but I don’t see why you would part with them. They’re lovely.”

And then Aziraphale smiled at him, genuine and bright, and Crowley...what was his stomach _doing_? 

Handing Crowley his books, Aziraphale said, “Thank you for bringing these by.”

“Right. Ta,” Crowley said, his feet moving without him really telling them to, the walk through the bookshop a blur as he tried to figure out why he felt so strange. He was thankful he didn’t bump into anything on his way to the door.

“If you have any others you’d like me to take a look at, stop by whenever you’d like,” Aziraphale said, opening the door for him. This time, he didn’t practically shove Crowley off the step; instead, he waited patiently while Crowley gathered his coat and umbrella. 

“Might take you up on that,” Crowley said, reaching out to shake Aziraphale’s hand. The angel took it, his palm smooth and soft against Crowley’s. Again, the tingling sensation climbed up Crowley’s arm and he tried not to shiver. 

“See you soon then, Mr. Crowley.”

“Just Crowley,” he reminded him with a quick smile, stepping out into the significantly drier weather as the door latch clicked behind him.

And that was how Crowley found himself in the business of obtaining semi-rare (but not so rare as to raise suspicion) books.

* * *

Crowley had tucked a box with a first print of the _Philosopher’s Stone_ — it had a good plot, alright? _—_ under his arm and was on his way to the bookshop when the weather started to get the best of him. It was mid-December and the rain had turned to sleet. Any efforts to repel the rain were immediately foiled when he transformed his eyes outside the bookshop, the cold he’d kept at bay sliding down his spine as his hair went limp with icy rain. 

He slipped into the bookshop, resisting the urge to shake off the rain like a wet dog the moment the door closed behind him. 

“Oh!” he heard from his right, knowing without having to look that Aziraphale was at his desk, he probably had those adorable glasses on his nose as he did something ridiculous like _accounting_ or _cataloguing_.

“It must be coming down out there,” Aziraphale said, suddenly much closer than Crowley had anticipated as he peered out the front window and then took in Crowley’s generally dripping state. 

“Your powers of observation are astounding,” Crowley said sharply and immediately regretted it. He wasn’t supposed to be rude to targets. That _never_ worked very well.

To his surprise, Aziraphale snorted. “To the contrary, I’ve been informed that I tend to miss the most obvious of signs. Some of my...friends find it very frustrating.”

There was a tartan-patterned flannel being pressed into his hand, so Crowley used it to dry his hair. “Thanks,” Crowley said morosely, flapping the towel in Aziraphale’s direction when he’d gotten most of the water out of his hair.

“You look white as a sheet,” Aziraphale said, plucking the flannel from his hand. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”

He bustled off into the shop, leaving Crowley to drip on his dusty rug and stare after him. 

...Tea?

Then Aziraphale was back and forcing a cup of tea into Crowley’s cold hands, a soft palm cupping the back of Crowley’s hand as the angel smiled earnestly. “Please,” he said, gesturing at a chair newly divested of books. Crowley had a suspicion that Aziraphale had used some of his powers to clear it off. Sneaky.

Crowley set down the only slightly wet box he’d brought with him and took his seat.

“Not that it’s not pleasant to see you, but I can’t imagine you had such pressing business that you needed to come here in this weather.”

Crowley’s ears rang. Pleasant to see him. Pleasant!

To see _him!_

Poorly hiding a grin behind the rim of his cup, Crowley sipped on the milky tea, feeling warmed from the inside out. “I misjudged,” he admitted.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows went up.

“It wasn’t raining when I left my apartment!” Crowley protested lamely, and Aziraphale laughed again. The sound made Crowley feel even warmer—which was strange. A sound couldn’t make someone feel warm. It was just a _sound_. 

“Well, what is it today?” Aziraphale asked, leaning towards the box Crowley had set on the table, looking a bit like a witch ready to cackle over her cauldron. 

Soon thereafter, they were in the backroom, Aziraphale sifting through the book and clucking his tongue. “Not terribly valuable,” Aziraphale said absentmindedly, and Crowley wondered if he knew he said it out loud. A bit disappointing, really.

After Aziraphale wrapped the book up and handed it back to him, Crowley went to the door, frowning. He’d have to be in the cold for at least a minute before he could shift back into his powers. A hand on his elbow stopped him.

“You’re welcome to stay until the weather lets up,” Aziraphale said and Crowley felt a thrill of success. Aziraphale _liked_ him enough to care about his wellbeing. Step one: complete. He could probably send a report downstairs that he was making progress. 

Crowley gave him a wide-eyed look, finding it not very hard to look shocked and thankful.

Aziraphale gestured with his hand. “While you’re here, let me show you something.”

Crowley trailed after him into the dimmer parts of the bookshop and Aziraphale led him to a small case. “I thought - well, with your collection - you might find these interesting.”

Crowley looked at the case. “Bibles?”

Aziraphale held up a finger, looking like he was about to let Crowley in a very important secret. “ _Misprinted_ bibles.”

Crowley gaped.

An angel that collected _misprinted bibles?_ Wasn’t that something like heresy? He knew a few popes who would have thought so.

This was getting better all the time.

Aziraphale unlocked the case and slipped on his book handling gloves before pulling one out. “This one has expletives in it,” Aziraphale said gleefully as he carefully opened the book to a certain page and pointed.

Crowley took the opportunity to step closer to Aziraphale, to let their arms brush. “Quite a feat, tracking these down. How’d you manage it?” he asked softly, pressing slightly closer as he breathed the question over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angel looked at him and their eyes locked. Crowley’s mouth went dry. He hoped uselessly that Aziraphale’s gaze would drop to his mouth because that was what was _supposed_ to happen, but instead Aziraphale bounced excitedly. “Years of tireless searching,” he said, sliding the book carefully back into the case. “Let me tell you! It wasn’t easy. But it was worth it in the end.”

“Seems an awful lot of effort,” Crowley said, letting his fingers brush over the back of Aziraphale’s wrist before stepping away. The angel hardly reacted. Did Crowley need to step up his game? But how? He’d tried a direct approach at the start and _that_ had been a miserable failure.

Before he could decide on his next move, Aziraphale turned back to him with a pleased smile, and then cocked his head. “Oh, you’ve just got...hold on,” he said and Crowley froze as Aziraphale reached out, one hand going to his bicep as if to steady him while he brushed his thumb over Crowley’s cheekbone. “Eyelash,” he said apologetically, holding out his thumb to show Crowley.

Crowley was suddenly thankful for Aziraphale’s steadying grip because there were those blasted tingles again. Crowley was adjusting to them even if they did make him slightly dizzy. 

“Oh look!” Aziraphale said abruptly, giving Crowley a fright. He was pointing at the far window. Crowley turned and saw the beginnings of sunshine spill over the sidewalk. Crowley sighed.

“Time to be off then!” he said, trying not to sound sullen. He liked Aziraphale like this, so excited - no, what he liked was the feeling of making progress and therefore found the prospect of leaving disappointing. He looked out over the rain stained pavement and said, “I promise to wait for better weather next time I have business. Keep out of your hair.”

“No bother,” Aziraphale said and their arms were brushing again. “You can take refuge in my bookshop any time you like.”

Any time. Right. Perfect. 

Shrugging on his miraculously dry jacket (he was certain Aziraphale had run some interference on that front which was...nice), he said, “Until next time, Aziraphale.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Aziraphale said, placing a hand on Crowley’s back as he showed him out the door, the heat of his palm like a brand that Crowley felt for the entire journey home.

* * *

A few weeks later a signed copy of _Bridget Jones_ had Aziraphale looking at him with ill-disguised humor as they began to discuss film adaptations of books.

“They are always absolute travesties,” Aziraphale insisted, slipping the book back into the box. “They’re twisted to make the most money.”

“Oh, really?” Crowley asked, leaning his weight on his hand where he’d placed it atop the book binding table. Aziraphale gave it a sharp look so he snatched it back. He didn’t have any books to knock over here but he wasn’t going to take any chances. “You have to have liked some of them.”

Aziraphale gave him a fixed look like Crowley was truly exasperating but there was a hint of softness around the edges and Crowley’s heart gave a celebratory kick in his chest. 

“Please. You’re partial to Fleming, yes? Casino Royale?” Aziraphale asked, skirting around the edge of the table and walking out of the room. Crowley snagged the box with Bridget Jones and followed him.

“What about it?”

“And that adaptation? How did you like it?” Aziraphale asked, still walking. A bit confused, Crowley trailed after. 

“I mean, I’ve seen worse,” Crowley admitted. What was Aziraphale up to? He seemed like a rabbit on the hunt, nosing after some tasty clover, his hands dancing over his desk before landing on a drawer.

He pulled out a bottle.

And two glasses.

Trying to keep his cool, Crowley continued, “Most of the Bond films are alright. I mean, they’re different than the books, sure -”

“See!” Aziraphale said, uncorking the brandy - was that brandy? - and pouring some into each glass. “I don’t see why films can’t stay true to their source material.”

Crowley tried to will his heart to beat slower as Aziraphale handed him a glass and gestured for him to sit in one of the empty chairs that usually held books. Aziraphale turned his desk chair around and sat. 

Carefully taking the seat Crowley said, “Well, you should think of it as a continuation of the story not a reiteration of the same content. Take the Lord of the Rings films.”

Aziraphale sipped at his brandy and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“Alright,” Crowley said, setting his brandy on the ground and immediately picking it back up when Aziraphale glared at it like it was a stray mouse. Cradling the glass in his hand, Crowley continued, “Lord of the Rings. The Two Towers. Have you read it? Seen it?”

“Yes, of course I have.”

“Well it’s a great example of expanding on a story!” Crowley insisted. “In the book, the Battle of Helm’s Deep. The elves don’t come. But they do in the film. And it’s _better_. It’s more grandiose.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in thought before taking another deep drink. 

“Look, think about myths right? All those old stories,” Crowley explained. “They start one way and then whenever they’re retold by a new person, things change. Things get added.”

“Are you comparing film adaptations to the oral tradition?” Aziraphale asked, taking off his glasses and looking intrigued. Fish, see hook.

Crowley pointedly did not make a comment about _oral._ But he really wanted to. 

“You know, I’ve never thought of it like that,” Aziraphale said, frowning. “To be fair, the Lord of the Rings adaptations are exemplary.”

“Like those, do you?” Crowley asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt strange. 

“They stay fairly true to the themes of the book,” Aziraphale pointed out and Crowley could no longer contain his grin.

“Really?”

“Triumph of good over evil?” Aziraphale asked. “It’s timeless. Are you going to drink that brandy? I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

Crowley looked at the brandy in his lap and realized he hadn’t even had a sip. “Oh no, I’ll - thank you.”

Aziraphale gave him a small smile. A genuine one that thrilled Crowley. Progress!

“So, tell me more about film adaptations you hate,” Crowley said, swinging one leg over the arm of the chair and sipping at his brandy, ready to hear what would surely be a grand tirade.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by [poetic_nonsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_nonsense/pseuds/poetic_nonsense), amberm7, and [tisziny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisziny/pseuds/tisziny) all of whom have been unbelievably supportive
> 
> i totally spaced saying this in the first chapter but the title is from the front bottoms song of the same name

After the success of _Bridget Jones_ —aka the brandy incident—Crowley kept bringing books and Aziraphale kept offering him drinks and they would talk for an hour or so before Aziraphale made some excuse—he needed to close the bookshop or he had an appointment he’d forgotten about. Crowley wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t sure if it was continued reticence or simply habit that had Aziraphale keeping him at arm’s length, but Crowley felt so close to breaking through. Every time he stayed for tea, making inane conversation about everything from their favorite treats—Aziraphale had asked, confiding he had a sweet tooth and a love for dark chocolate truffles but was fascinated by Crowley’s preference for marzipan—to classical music—of course Aziraphale liked classical music. It was then that Crowley found himself growing more disconcerted by their ever-growing friendship.

He shuddered just thinking about it. Demons didn’t have _friends_.

But Crowley couldn’t help it. Aziraphale was interesting. He didn’t stare at Crowley like he was insane—like Ligur—or smell terrible—like Hastur. He just existed, smiling placidly and being a little wicked every now and then. Tempting Crowley to _just another glass, a late lunch._ Bullying customers from his shop and complaining about the strangest things. He liked complaining. He liked bickering. 

He was just enough of a bastard and Crowley found it _fascinating._

So he chose a very particular book for Aziraphale to look at. He wanted to see a reaction. Would he turn up his nose and dismiss it? Crowley was fairly certain that was impossible. But he couldn’t resist a little test.

“It’s first edition dual volumes of the _Codex Seraphinianus_ ,” Crowley said on one of their usual Fridays, setting down the box by the till. “I wanted your take.”

“ _Codex Seraphinianus_. Really…” Aziraphale murmured with a secretive smile.

Some of the more religious fanatics called the _Codex_ Satanist literature. But Aziraphale...well, he treated it the same way he did all books, holding his hand over the cover as if to stroke it lovingly, just barely stopping himself before his fingers brushed the dust jacket.

“You know, I’ve never gone through the effort of tracking this down,” he said quietly, not looking up from the book.

“Really?” Crowley said, leaning forward and grinning deviously.

Aziraphale finally looked up, eyes pausing on Crowley’s mouth as something uncertain passed over his face. Crowley’s smile faltered. What was that look?

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you own it,” Aziraphale said, picking up the box to take it to the back room. Crowley trailed after. Like always.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley asked, leaning back against the doorframe as Aziraphale set himself up at the table.

Aziraphale’s secretive smile returned. “Just that, well, you seem awfully wicked.”

Crowley nearly choked on his tongue, but Aziraphale didn’t notice, absorbed as he was in the books.

“Yeah, that’s, er, me. Wicked through and through,” Crowley stammered. He tried to stand up and move closer to the book-binding table, but he knocked into one of the filing cabinets and swore loudly as it dug into his hip. “Great bollocksing _fuck_ ,” he said, grasping at his hip. 

Aziraphale looked up. “Quite a mouth on you,” he said, clucking his tongue.

And Aziraphale’s tone— _quite a mouth_ —had Crowley choking again.

This time Aziraphale noticed and moved around the table to come by his side. “Oh, dear, do you need some water?”

Crowley coughed and shook his head. “No, I’m - I’m alright. Just, surprised myself. Knocking into things.”

His face was getting very hot and Aziraphale was just _staring_ at him. He tried not to duck his head.

“You do like to do that,” Aziraphale said and it sounded like he was laughing at him. But it was fond and it made Crowley’s heart soar. He was getting somewhere.

* * *

It was after the inspection of a truly miserable copy of _Little Women_ — which Crowley _knew_ was utter shite when he brought it into the shop for Aziraphale to appraise — that Aziraphale tracked down a reasonably priced _Casino Royale_ , which Crowley purchased with no small amount of chagrin. He wished he’d thought of another book. Not that money was an issue, but it was silly to have two copies of the blasted thing.

So when Crowley paid for it, signing the receipt with a flourish, Aziraphale gave him a nervous smile and said, “I’ve enjoyed doing business with you.”

For a moment, Crowley felt as if Aziraphale’s gray eyes were pinning him down (not possible), but he refused to squirm away like he desperately wanted. “Er, yeah, it’s been a treat.”

When Aziraphale smiled just right, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and, in that moment, he gave Crowley one of those smiles. It felt special somehow and Crowley wondered if he should put it down in the success column.

The angel handed Crowley his receipt. Crowley cast about for the right thing to say. If he just left now, there’d be no reason for him to come back. Was Aziraphale dismissing him? 

Thoughts spiraling, Crowley almost missed it when Aziraphale spoke.

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale began carefully, stepping away and closing his ledger. “Of course I wouldn’t want to put you out if you had plans—but a new Thai place opened up around the corner that I’ve been interested in trying. Would you like to accompany me for a spot of lunch?”

Crowley’s mouth went dry as he scrambled for a response. Wasn’t he—wasn’t _he_ supposed to be asking Aziraphale to lunch? It was what he had been working up to with all this ridiculous book stuff.

He tried to affect nonchalance—of course he knew Aziraphale would ask him to lunch, he’d been setting it up for weeks. Of _course_.

“Thai food,” he remarked as carelessly as he could manage. Why did his stomach feel like it had dropped into his feet? “You didn’t strike me as the type.”

“Well, you didn’t seem the type to enjoy Winnie the Pooh. But we all have our idiosyncrasies,” Aziraphale replied with as a small smile—was he flirting?—as he plucked his coat off the rack and slipped it on. He turned back to Crowley and the playful smile was swiftly replaced by a nervous one. He tugged on his waistcoat. “Are you—well, are you coming? I am a bit peckish and—”

“No, I—” Crowley rushed to say, and then—realizing he was losing every measure of aloofness he had managed to cultivate by acting like a desperate twat—swallowed and forced himself to calm down. “Thai’s good,” he added, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just surprised, is all.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Aziraphale said with a relieved smile that made him seem to _glow_. “This will be lovely.”

Aziraphale gestured to the door, and when Crowley passed by, he felt the brush of the angel’s hand between his shoulder blades.

* * *

Crowley used to find his targets interesting. Humans were interesting in general; they all had unique experiences and perspectives, and yeah, sometimes, they were a little narrow-minded, but that was interesting in its own way. But Aziraphale—Aziraphale was on an entirely different level.

Blowing on his spoonful of massaman (spice level 7, which, impressive, Crowley only got a 4 on his pad thai), Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You cannot possibly believe that Jane Eyre is borrowing its primary storyline from Beauty and the Beast. It clearly has its origins in Bluebeard.”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley said, plucking a peanut from his noodles and popping it into his mouth. “Wuthering Heights, though? Not Charlotte, I’ll grant you, but Emily was alright.”

Aziraphale groaned in irritation. “You cannot tell me you like that drivel.”

“It’s poetic!” Crowley protested, trying not to smile. Aziraphale was cute when he got huffy.

 _He’s an angel and an assignment, you’re not supposed to think he’s cute_.

“Prostrating yourself in the open grave of someone you claimed to love is just pathetic.”

“If it’s good enough for Hamlet…” 

“Don’t you dare compare Hamlet to Heathcliffe. I will not stand for it.”

“Oh, of course not. Dramatic brooding souls bound for revenge. Nothing similar at all,” Crowley said sarcastically, spearing some noodles on his fork but forgetting to eat them when Aziraphale’s tongue darted out, licking over his bottom lip to catch a drop of curry.

The waiter stopped by to top off their water, and Aziraphale gave him a smile so bright that Crowley nearly dropped his fork under the sheer wattage of it.

Watching Aziraphale eat was nearly as interesting as listening to him talk. He paused before taking each bite as if to savor each one like it was its own little miracle before delicately wiping his hands on the napkin he placed in his lap. A perfect little Victorian, this angel.

“This is very good,” Aziraphale noted as he scraped the last bit of sauce from his bowl.

Crowley jolted, realizing he’d been staring at Aziraphale’s lips for far longer than he had intended. “Yeah. Tasty.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at Crowley’s half picked over plate. 

“Too spicy,” Crowley said lamely. In truth, he’d been so caught up in the conversation that he’d forgotten to actually put food in his mouth.

Aziraphale set his napkin to the side of his plate and turned the full force of his gaze onto Crowley. Upon closer inspection, Crowley realized Aziraphale’s eyes were blue hazel, flecks of gray and gold illuminating the irises so that they changed in the light. 

Aziraphale’s gaze darted from Crowley’s face and back to his plate. “I’m not—well, I completely understand if you feel differently but I’ve enjoyed our business transactions these last few months.” Aziraphale gave him a weak smile that made Crowley’s stomach twist. He didn’t like it. Where was that bright grin? He wanted it back.

Aziraphale glanced down at his hands and then up at Crowley through his dusky blonde lashes. “And I want to apologize for how I treated you when you first came into my shop. I suppose you really did mean well, and I jumped to conclusions, which was unfair.”

Crowley stared at him, thoughts spinning like a top as he tried to grasp at _something_ to say. “Yeah, no, I mean - I was, yeah, I wasn’t...not your fault,” he landed on after several pathetic tries.

Aziraphale gave him a thankful smile. “I was hoping you didn’t hold it against me and I do so hope this isn’t the end of our acquaintance. You’ve been very good company and I’d be loath to lose you. Perhaps you could come by the bookshop again? Get lunch? You’re a fine dining companion. Quite the conversationalist,” he said like he was letting Crowley in on a joke. But Crowley didn’t miss the way his eyes dropped to his lap. Why was he so nervous? What could Aziraphale possibly have to be nervous about?

“Erm,” Crowley said intelligently.

_Yes! Say yes!_

And then Crowley remembered it was in fact his _job_ to say yes. It was his _job_ to do the asking in the first place!

Aziraphale’s face fell and Crowley immediately decided he did not like _that_. It was worse even than the half-hearted smile. 

“It’s quite alright if you’re not inclined. I thought you’ve enjoyed yourself, but I completely understand. I suppose you must think of me as awfully boring. Most of the other—well, most people do,” Aziraphale said, giving him a disappointed smile before waving down the waiter to get the check. “It’s probably for the best. It’s rarely a good idea to be friends with hu-customers.”

Boring? _Boring?!_ Aziraphale was the least boring person—being—he’d ever met.

“No, it’s just that—” _What is wrong with you?_ “I’ve enjoyed myself,” Crowley said, trying to be nonchalant but when he tried to lean back in his seat, he lost his balance and had to grasp at the edge of the table to stay upright.

Aziraphale was by his side immediately, arm on his shoulder for support. Crowley scowled. He was really mucking this up. 

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asked, hand still on his arm and making Crowley’s shoulder tingle. Crowley stood and brushed nonexistent crumbs from the front of his jacket.

“Er, yes, it’s fine,” Crowley said, running a hand through his hair and trying to calm the beating of his heart. 

They walked out onto the street and when Crowley looked at Aziraphale, he noticed the same crestfallen expression from inside the restaurant. Ah fuck. 

“You’re not boring,” Crowley said, scuffing his foot on the sidewalk and refusing to look at Aziraphale. “And I _would_ like to do this again. Lunch or what have you.”

Aziraphale brightened immediately. “Oh really? That’s so kind of you to say. My coworkers— well, my friends—I suppose I should call them acquaintances—don’t find me particularly interesting. We don’t share very many interests,” he said, resigned in a quiet way that had Crowley’s neck prickling. 

Did the other angels pick on Aziraphale? Crowley gritted his teeth. If he ever had an opportunity to meet another angel, well, he’d certainly do something about _that_.

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley and brightened immediately. “But I think you and I could be very good friends. It may surprise you but I haven’t had very many.”

Oh bugger. This was what Crowley had been afraid of. _Friendship_. It was absolutely going to get in the way of his assignment. He’d never done the friends to lovers thing with any of his other targets. They had always been easy to get in bed, no long, drawn-out romancing needed. And, from Crowley’s admittedly cursory understanding of having friends, you weren’t supposed to fuck them.

Gathering himself—he had a job to do, this was just resetting the parameters—he jerked his head in the direction of the bookshop and said, “Let me walk you back.”

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically and when they reached the stoop of the shop, he paused. “Perhaps you could stop by next Friday? I’m thinking sushi.”

He gave Crowley another one of those blinding grins and Crowley found that all he could do was nod, because that smile was doing something to his ribcage that made it hard to breathe. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Aziraphale said, hand pausing on the door handle, his smile rounding the pink apples of his cheeks. Crowley had the wild impulse to grab his face and kiss him.

The angel shut the door before he could. Crowley leaned against the column outside the bookshop and closed his eyes. Friends? _Friends?!_

* * *

Crowley scowled at his laptop, where Meg Ryan’s face was paused, eyes half closed and looking ridiculous. These movies were ridiculous! Maybe he should be reading self-help books on how to romance someone.

The wikihow articles had been useless— “how to turn a friendship into a romance.” He should never have invented the blasted website. It was absolute shite. All this talk of love and finding common ground like any of that was real. Humans were idiots thinking there was any such thing. Wikihow proved it.

Groaning, he flopped back on his couch. He was going to have to wing it.

He sullenly wrote up his report to Hell, embellishing some interactions, but knowing without a doubt he would have to explain himself in person.

* * *

“It’s been four months, Crowley. Where are my results?” Beelzebub demanded, slamming their fist into the arm of their throne (which was literally made of arms). 

Crowley smiled slyly. He knew this game of bullshit. “It’s an _angel_ , Lord Beelzebub. I can’t exactly say ‘let me get in your knickers’ and expect him to drop trou.”

Beelzebub hummed and buzzed, clearly frustrated but without any rebuttal. “What’s your estimated date of completion?”

Crowley disliked the way his stomach turned at the word _completion_. Like Aziraphale was some thing he could tie up in a bow and discard.

“Within the year,” Crowley said with a sycophantic smile.

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll hold you to it.”

* * *

On Friday, Crowley dressed himself in his best clothes—jeans that made his legs look longer, jacket that emphasized his shoulders—and took himself off to the bookshop, choosing to not feel nervous about the prospect of seeing Aziraphale again. It was fine. Crowley had spent two thousand years seducing people. And yeah, this was an angel, so it was different, but _some_ of the principles had to apply. 

Sure, he’d not really done the whole friends before having sex thing because it had never _mattered_ for his targets. How did one transition from platonic lunches to intimate dinners? Crowley hadn’t the faintest idea and Meg Ryan had been no help. Romantic comedies were about falling in love and that didn’t help Crowley one whit.

Tucking the gift he had purchased under his arm, he ran a final hand through his hair and told himself that it was going to work.

“You can do this,” he told his reflection sternly. It looked distinctly unimpressed.

When he opened the door to the bookshop, the bell tinkled, like always, and Crowley wandered the shop and let the angel come in his own time.

One of the stacks on the table nearest the door was entirely illustrated Winnie the Pooh books. Crowley laughed. He wondered if Aziraphale had put them out on purpose. Nearby were some Beatrix Potters, and Crowley plucked out Jemima Puddleduck, browsing through the illustrations just as Aziraphale appeared at his side.

“Ah yes, old Jemima. Poor gullible girl,” Aziraphale said absentmindedly, plucking the book out of Crowley’s hands and setting it back on the table. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Crowley nodded, feeling his face get hot. “Yeah. Lovely.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. Crowley wanted to kick himself. He needed to do _better_. If he did better, then he could get Aziraphale into bed and then he could leave this entire nightmare behind him.

“I brought you something,” he said. His voice didn’t sound at all seductive, gravelly and squeaky all at once. He cleared his throat.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh, you didn’t have to -”

Crowley produced the small box of chocolates he had purchased for a hefty price from the bougie chocolatier in Mayfair. It seemed just the thing the angel would like. Indulgent and expensive.

“You said you liked truffles,” Crowley said, proud of himself for the casual way he tossed the words out between them like _oh yes, I just happened to remember that you liked these_.

Aziraphale reached out and took the box carefully. “You shouldn’t have.”

Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale’s smile was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. All sweaty or something. “I wanted to.”

Aziraphale took the lid off the box and inhaled deeply. Not for the first time since meeting Aziraphale, Crowley desperately wished he had use of his powers. He wanted to know if the glint in Aziraphale’s eye when he looked back at him was lust or just friendly appreciation for a gift. If only he could tell, he’d know if the gift had been a real success. He needed to move this forward and quickly 

“I suppose I shouldn’t ruin my supper,” he said with a bit of regret, replacing the lid. “I was just finishing some invoices. Will you be alright by yourself?” Aziraphale asked politely and Crowley knew he was thinking about the book bumping incident from all those months ago.

“Er, sure thing. Keep myself to myself. Right here,” Crowley said, shoving his hands into his pockets as far as they would go as if to indicate he wouldn’t touch anything. He was still flying high after the success of the chocolates and didn’t exactly trust his limbs to behave.

Aziraphale puttered away, leaving Crowley to listen to the low sounds of Aziraphale flipping through pages and humming occasionally. He could imagine the way Aziraphale wrote, pen clasped between his fingers, the steady scratch of it as the angel pursed his lips, brow furrowing in focus.

Crowley pulled out his phone and looked through the news, trying to distract himself with something and not pay too much attention to the way his skin prickled in the angel’s proximity.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, reappearing in front of Crowley with such little warning that Crowley stumbled back in surprise. One of Aziraphale’s hands shot out and grasped his elbow to keep him upright. “I leave you alone for one minute,” he said, tutting at him, the sound tinged with an affection that had Crowley’s heart speeding up.

Crowley tugged his arm away with a scowl. “You _startled_ me.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh and said, “Whatever you say, my dear.”

Crowley stomach fluttered. Dear? Did friends call each other dear? 

Still trying to piece together what that meant, Crowley followed Aziraphale down the street to a small sushi restaurant that was significantly more posh than the thai place they had gone to previously.

After a short argument about whether sake was better hot or cold—Crowley prefered cold but Aziraphale _insisted_ —they had their food placed in front of them and Aziraphale was fondly mocking his ability to handle his chopsticks and eat sushi correctly.

“You dip it fish side down,” Aziraphale insisted, flipping the sushi in his chopsticks to slide his tuna nigiri into the soy sauce plate.

“What if I like it rice side down,” Crowley needled as he slopped his nigiri into his own soy sauce.

“It ruins the integrity of the rice! Look at that!” Aziraphale gestured at the underside of Crowley’s sushi which had turned a mottled brown where the soy sauce had soaked into the rice.

“Maybe I like it salty.” Crowley popped the nigiri in his mouth and made an exaggerated noise of pleasure. Aziraphale blushed a little. Good.

Aziraphale put down his chopsticks and took a sip of his water. “So, what do you do for a living?”

“Independent contractor,” Crowley answered. It was his usual response these days.

“What field?” Aziraphale pressed.

“A little bit of everything really,” he said, the lie smooth in his mouth. He wondered if the angel had the right of it, getting a human job as a cover.

“Anything exciting?”

“I travel some, but nah, not really,” Crowley said, stabbing one of his chopsticks into the pile of wasabi on his plate.

“Well, you must like it if you keep at it.”

“Pays the bills.” 

“And lets you purchase rare books apparently.”

“Er, yes. Most of those are inherited.” Crowley didn’t like this conversation. It had him lying through his teeth. 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “And you’ve been struck by the newfound urge to sell them?”

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would go in for a bit more directness on his part. He’d been dancing around the subject since he’d put his foot in it that first day.

“I was trying to spend more time with you.”

The words tumbled out of his mouth and Crowley wished he grab them and stuff them back where they came from. That was too much. A poorly calculated risk that would surely have Aziraphale tossing him out on his arse.

Instead, Aziraphale blushed prettily—no, _not_ prettily—and said, “Oh, well, that’s...”

His eyes darted away before he focused on his plate and Crowley wanted to kick himself. There it was. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he ventured, ignoring the strange, cold feeling in his stomach. “I just”— bloody hell, he was going to pretend to be a fucking sop wasn’t he—“I like you.”

That’s what he was supposed to say. Surely. Felt right, didn’t it?

Aziraphale looked up again, affection overtaking his face so swiftly that Crowley felt like he was drowning in the swell of it. 

“I like you too,” he said softly. 

Crowley felt like he’d been kicked in the chest, the wind abruptly knocked from him as he rubbed at his sternum. 

“I’m quite glad we’re friends,” Aziraphale added.

Crowley suppressed a groan. This assignment was going to discorporate him. 

* * *

Friday became something of a tradition. Aziraphale would take him to lunch and they would spend far too much time talking until the waitstaff was practically shooing them out. Sometimes Aziraphale would invite him back to the bookshop for tea and they would chat and bicker until dinner time when Crowley would finally make his excuses, feeling warm and aglow and satisfied with a job well done.

Crowley felt certain they were working towards something. And then—finally—Aziraphale asked him to dinner. Crowley had been working up to it. He had been! Lunches just seemed so platonic. Even lunches that went on for nearly 6 hours.

But then dinner was more of the same and Crowley, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out how to change it.

And a very stupid part of him didn’t want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated chapter count due to unexpected character behavior
> 
> ALSO there will be a pause in updating this until the new year probably because holidays and family nonsense.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hark! an unexpected update. extra shout out to my beta [poetic_nonsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_nonsense/pseuds/poetic_nonsense) because this would not be posted without their mega lightning turnaround time

Crowley showed up to the bookshop on Wednesday for what was now their weekly dinner date. It had been added atop the already long Friday lunch dates and Crowley was feeling successful about the matter. Just another step in the process.

He stepped through the door—greeted by the happy tinkling of the bell that he’d come to associate with a rush of warmth and soft cocoa smell. “Aziraphale?” he asked as he stepped onto the rug.

The angel wasn’t at his desk so Crowley began poking through the shelves. Aziraphale didn’t let him do it very often, always glaring daggers at him when he so much as breathed too close to a shelf. But Crowley wasn’t normally that clumsy! It wasn’t his fault that—

“Ah, yes, the Donne. I’m afraid that’s not for sale.”

That was Aziraphale’s voice but it wasn’t his normal bright tone. Not the kind one that Crowley had grown so accustomed to. It was hard and cold. Rudeness couched in plausible deniability.

Frowning, Crowley peeked around the shelf and saw Aziraphale at the till talking to a woman with brown hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. Aziraphale wasn’t wearing a bow tie and the top button of his collar was open. It looked practically obscene, that little flash of skin that was normally so well hidden.

“Well, if you won’t sell me that, I’d still like to purchase the Maugham,” the woman said as she pulled out her wallet.

“Ah, yes, the Maugham,” Aziraphale said with a small overly polite nod. “I’m afraid I’ll need to see some identification if you’d like to purchase the Maugham.”

“Identification?” the woman asked incredulously and Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgment.

“Yes, it’s quite racy. I’d prefer not to sell to minors.”

The woman’s gray-streaked hair apparently meant nothing to Aziraphale in terms of age. He was being purposefully obtuse and it was _delightful._ She spluttered. “You don’t need identification to buy books.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I can be overly cautious,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, taking the book from her hands and flipping it open as if to check something on the inside cover. “I believe this book is priced at ninety one pounds.”

“I thought it said nine pounds!” the woman protested.

“Oh no, you must have misread the sign on that section,” Aziraphale said, not even looking at her as he began to type out the total on the till.

“I’m not buying a book for ninety pounds!" the woman said. “This is ridiculous!”

“Perhaps if you purchased books for such a price you’d be less inclined to dog ear the pages,” Aziraphale said with a smile so blindingly polite that it was terrifying. Crowley’s heart thudded loudly in his ears. This was brilliant. Crowley wanted to watch Aziraphale intimidate customers for hours. A bastard at every turn and a captivating bastard at that.

The woman took a step back and clutched at her purse. “How do you know that I—”

Aziraphale sighed and somehow managed to look honestly regretful. “If you’re not going to purchase anything, then I believe it would be best if you left. I am closing quite soon.”

Crowley stared at him, thinking his eyes looked flinty even in the warm light of the shop. Threatening. His heart did something strange as he watched Aziraphale lead the woman to the door. He was every inch the angel. Intimidating, larger than life. Crowley wouldn’t be able to tear himself away if he wanted to.

“Thank you for your business,” Aziraphale said with a sharp nod, an echo of the same thing he said to Crowley when he unceremoniously kicked him out of the shop so many months ago. The woman stumbled backwards out of the shop, eyes still on Aziraphale like she was worried he might chase after her.

Aziraphale turned away and spotted Crowley, forcibly polite expression melting into something soft and joyful. Crowley thought he could feel his heart in his throat. Aziraphale was so...so…

“Oh my dear! I didn’t know you were here!”

“Yeah,” he choked out. “You really just—wow—”

Aziraphale blushed, eyelashes fluttering. “Oh, yes, er, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t be,” Crowley said quickly. He wanted to see it again. See all the ways Aziraphale chased customers out of his shop. The way his eyes flashed, the harsh set of his mouth, usually so soft. He wanted to see it all.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up.

“It was just..." Crowley swallowed. “Illuminating.”

At that, Aziraphale started laughing, hand going to his chest as his belly shook. Crowley wanted to reach out and feel the rumble of that laugh as it rocked through the angel. Maybe laugh too.

“You are a strange man,” Aziraphale said finally shaking his head. “You’re here for dinner, I presume?”

Crowley nodded, still reeling from the strange desire to envelop Aziraphale in his arms.

“Well, let me just lock up and we can be on our way, hm?”

Crowley watched, motionless, as Aziraphale bustled around the shop. He had the strangest feeling inside him. Like he was forgetting something but every time he reached for it, it slipped away.

* * *

Crowley called the bookshop the next week with a proposal. Aziraphale didn’t answer the phone, so he left a message, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible even though something about it made him nervous.

“Hello, Aziraphale. There’s a wine tasting on Saturday afternoon at a vintner’s across town. I was hoping you’d join me. I know how much you like a good wine.

“Give me a call back. This is Crowley by the way,” he said in a rush at the end, wincing at how much he sounded like a fool.

He stared down at the phone after he hung up. What was _wrong_ with him? Something wasn’t right. Maybe it was how long the assignment was taking. He’d been working on Aziraphale for over 6 months, which was far and away longer than any other seduction he’d done. And they’d barely even touched. Crowley thought maybe he was getting...attached.

He flopped onto his couch and groaned as he rubbed at his eyes, fingers jamming into his sunglasses. He tossed them into the wall with a resounding crack. What was _happening_? Crowley didn’t get attached. The targets got attached! But then Crowley thought about Aziraphale’s slow smile, the way it had transformed from tight to polite to warm to affectionate. The curve of his mouth when he desperately wanted to argue with Crowley. The particular tone he took when he slipped up and mentioned something no one who hadn’t been alive centuries back could possibly know. It was stupid that Crowley wanted to listen to everything he had to say, wanted to know more, wanted to really _know_ Aziraphale.

You didn’t get to know targets. You got them into bed and then you left.

The chiming of his phone lurched him from his irritation as he slumped over to the receiver. It was probably Aziraphale, and he should feel satisfied about that, but instead he just felt more confused.

“Crowley! Sorry, I missed your call,” Aziraphale said, not sounding sorry at all. He sounded busy. That was his busy and distracted voice.

“S’fine,” Crowley said. He was so tired.

“A trip to the vintner’s sounds lovely, but I’ll be away for a few weeks and will be unavailable.” Now he did sound sorry.

Crowley wondered what he was up to. Probably some sort of Heaven nonsense. Or potentially book nonsense.

“That’s alright. You can call me when you get back?” Crowley asked and he sounded pathetic to his own ears.

“Oh, I’d like that very much.” The softness in Aziraphale’s voice made something twist in Crowley’s chest and he had to resist the urge to slam the receiver down and scream.

“Have a good trip,” Crowley managed to choke out, and then he did hang up.

* * *

As promised, Aziraphale called him two weeks to the day after he had offered his apologies for not being able to go wine tasting.

“Are you free today?” Aziraphale asked the moment Crowley picked up the receiver.

Crowley couldn’t stop the grin that came over his face at the sound of the angel’s voice. Maybe it was an angel thing, his reaction to Aziraphale’s voice. Though, he was a demon, so he probably shouldn’t have any sort of reaction.

“Matter of fact, I am. Just have to wrap a few things up but I’ll be free around two?”

“Late lunch at the Ritz? If that’s not too posh,” Aziraphale said. He sounded so excited that Crowley thought he wouldn’t be able to deny him for the world.

“Fine by me. Meet there or at the bookshop?”

“Let’s meet there,” Aziraphale said. Then a thick pause. “I’m looking forward to seeing you, my dear.”

“Me too,” Crowley said and he found he meant it.

Crowley did actually have work to finish up. He’d exploded a pothole outside of London in an effort to back up traffic, but it hadn’t worked as well as he would have liked. The humans were managing the issue far too effectively. So Crowley popped out to the scene of the crime and rewired a traffic signal so it was stuck on red. _That_ should suitably ruin at least a couple hundred commuters’ days.

Returning to his apartment, he changed into his favorite black blazer and for the first time changed his eyes in front of a mirror. Looking back at himself was strange. His eyes were slightly more brown than the snakish yellow he was accustomed to, and the round pupils made him uncomfortable. Is this how Aziraphale saw him? A skinny, hazel-eyed man? Without his powers to make himself more alluring, he was just another person with a crooked nose and a too-sharp chin. He sighed. What did he care? He was getting the work done. Aziraphale didn’t need to think he was the greatest thing since sliced bread, just good enough to shag, really. His heart skipped a beat at the thought.

Aziraphale was waiting for him outside the restaurant, brightening visibly when he saw Crowley. The angel was in his usual, strangely old-fashioned suit, looking soft and warm and happy.

“So you were traveling?” Crowley said once they were seated, fiddling with his silverware and feeling stupidly nervous.

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, probably coming up with some sort of lie. “I was in Italy, actually. On some...family business.”

“And how was the continent?” Crowley asked, lolling his head to the side lazily. His moment of self-consciousness in his apartment was still fresh in his mind. Aziraphale was beautiful and he was just…

Crowley’s thoughts stuttered to a stop. Did he really think Aziraphale was beautiful? He remembered seeing the angel for the first time. What had he thought? Cherubic but nondescript? He was fairly certain that’s what he had written in his first report. He gripped the handle of the butter knife in his hand, barely hearing Aziraphale’s description of the weather in Italy this time of year and breathed carefully through his nose. Something was _happening_ inside of him and he _did not like it_.

“Erm, I hope it’s not, well, I was in Rome and you said—I bought you something,” Aziraphale said, looking at the table and fidgeting for a moment before pulling a small box out of the pocket of his coat and putting it on the table.

Crowley looked at it, eyes going wide. It was just a box, he told himself, feeling frozen to his chair.

Aziraphale laughed, a high nervous thing. “If you don’t like it, I—well, I’d understand of course.”

Crowley lifted one hand, somehow certain he was moving in slow motion and opened the box to find...marzipan.

He looked up at Aziraphale whose eyes were bright under slightly furrowed brows. “It’s just you said you were partial to the kind you had in Italy. That you couldn’t find any you liked in London.”

Crowley’s hand tightened even more around the handle of the butter knife. He’d been given gifts before. Of course he had. All those seductions practically invited it —but it had always been jewels and clothes and strange delicacies. Nothing Crowley had _wanted_. And this was just marzipan. Not some offer of the world on a string but for some reason it felt huge, a weight on his chest. He’d said he liked marzipan in passing _once_ over tea at the bookshop and here was Aziraphale, remembering his stupid revealing comment three months later and thinking of him while he was in Italy probably sanctifying some relic and Crowley...and Crowley…

“Thank you,” he managed to say, releasing the butter knife. “That’s very kind of you.”

They ate lunch, chatting about _museum curation_ , of all things, and Crowley felt sort of out of his body, watching himself argue over the best way to lay out a Monet exhibit. He only felt himself come back down when Aziraphale mentioned that he wanted to see the new Japanese calligraphy display at the British Museum, and maybe they could go together, if Crowley was interested in that sort of thing.

Of course Crowley said yes, because this was his job, even if part of him wanted to launch himself into the Marianas Trench for a few hundred years while he got his head on straight. This was an _assignment_. His palms shouldn’t be sweaty and his belly shouldn’t be hot and he shouldn’t be looking forward to the next time he got to see Aziraphale.

And when they parted ways outside of the Ritz and Aziraphale hesitated before putting a warm hand on Crowley’s shoulder and squeezing it affectionately, Crowley’s stomach should _not_ twist up.

* * *

_Target has begun to initiate physical affection_

Crowley paused and chewed on the edge of his pen. Sighing, he let his head flop back onto the couch cushions. Now that 8 months had come and gone, Beelzebub was getting antsy. Or fly-y, if Crowley wanted to put a point on it. It wasn’t normal for them to be so far up Crowley’s arse about an assignment and yet…

Beelzebub had said this came all the way from the bottom.

Forcing himself to focus, Crowley turned back to the report.

_Target initiates roughly every other instance of proximal contact including but not limited to: dinner, museum dates, concerts, and theatre. Aziraphale smiles during Grieg but more during Vivaldi. Consider trying Liszt, then work up to Velvet Underground._

Crowley stared at the paper, an embarrassing heat rising in his throat as he reread his words. He couldn’t—he waved his hand to erase the last bit. This was too much. He needed to get this over with today. Finish the assignment and put distance between himself and Aziraphale so he could forget about this awful terrifying feeling in his stomach.

Summoning his cell phone, he dialed the bookshop, his throat growing even hotter as the phone rang out and then breathed a sigh of relief when Aziraphale answered.

“I had a bad day,” Crowley said by way of greeting. “Let’s get drunk.”

If he got drunk, he could do this. Push through the discomfort of seducing Aziraphale so crassly and put an end to this farce.

“Er, alright,” Aziraphale said, sounding flustered. “Would you like to come to the shop?”

“Yes,” Crowley said decisively. “I’ll bring the wine.”

Knowing he couldn’t miraculously refill the bottle, Crowley picked out two bottles and drove himself to the bookshop, reasoning that if he did this right he wouldn’t be going home anyway. He was getting this over with tonight. And that was his plan, that was his plan all the way up until Aziraphale opened the door to the bookshop and smiled at him. His determination melted away into relief, the fear and tension melting into something welcoming and warm that Crowley wanted to bask in.

Warning klaxons went off in Crowley’s head as Aziraphale ushered him inside.

“Still here this late? Thought you had those absurdly specific hours you liked to keep,” Crowley teased, in a wild grasp for normalcy. He couldn’t do this. Why did he think he could show up at Aziraphale’s door and get him into bed? Why?

His ears were ringing and Aziraphale had a hand on his lower back, leading him into the nook near the back room where they usually shared tea or brandy or sometimes wine.

Aziraphale puffed up and said, “I have a flat upstairs, if you must know.”

Crowley knew a well-practiced lie when he heard one. Bypassing it without question, he said, “Would you prefer to start with the Cote Rotie or the Chateau Lafite?”

Aziraphale chirped in delight and took one of the bottles to inspect the label. He cast Crowley a teasing look, the corners of his eyes crinkling. That was Crowley’s favorite smile appearing on his face. “So you are both a casual rare book owner and a connoisseur of fine wines?”

“I enjoy the finer things,” Crowley said smoothly, taking back the bottle. Fuck, he needed a drink. “Opener?”

“Ah, yes, let me track one down.” Aziraphale disappeared into the shelves and returned with one in hand before Crowley could even blink. Crowley had no idea how Aziraphale had gone undetected as a supernatural being for so long. He was miserable at pretending to be human.

The glasses were similarly “fetched” and Crowley gave them each a hearty pour.

“So,” Aziraphale said, setting himself down into a chair very carefully, wine glass held aloft in one hand like he was some lord holding court. “You said you had a bad day? Would you like to talk about it?”

Without his glasses Crowley felt vulnerable, but it was nighttime and he couldn’t exactly slip them back on his nose to hide his discomfort. “I dunno. The project I’m working on has been...difficult.”

Aziraphale hummed, pursing his lips slightly to make the noise and then continuing to look at Crowley softly, expectantly.

Pushing through the strange raw feeling in his chest, Crowley said, “I’m not really supposed to talk about the details.”

Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. “That’s quite alright. I am here for you if you change your mind.”

Crowley gave him a weak smile and then started to drink in earnest, thinking that would help him get up the courage to make a move. Unfortunately, what Crowley forgot about truly being drunk was how maudlin he got.

“Look, it’s not about the writing, it’s the premise,” he slurred after a particularly large gulp of wine. They were through a bottle and a half and another had made an appearance at some point.

“So you disagree with the _premise_ of _When Harry Met Sally_ ,” Aziraphale repeated slowly.

“Course I do,” Crowley said with some bluster. “What? Two hu—people meet and hate each other and then what? Get to know each other and fall in love? Not possible.”

“And what exactly are you questioning?” Aziraphale trailed off, looking oddly amused—clearly at Crowley’s expense.

Crowley blew a raspberry. “Love. Seems a load of shite made up to sell movie tickets. People either shag or they don’t. Easy as that.”

Aziraphale’s amused expression had disappeared only to be replaced by shock. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

“Have you ever been in love?” Crowley challenged.

Aziraphale set down his wine glass, eyes tight, the crinkles disappearing. Crowley mourned their loss. How could he physically miss an expression?

“No. It’s not...I suppose it’s not something I could ever have.”

Crowley sat up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aziraphale looked at him and he looked so sad that Crowley had to resist crawling over to him, taking his beautiful face in his hands and shouting, _Stop. Don’t look like that. Come back. You can tease me all you like. Just smile again._

“It’s a lovely thought. Romance. I’ve seen so many people fall in love. I’ve wondered about it, you know. I’ve just not wanted to – well, it’s hardly a good idea for me,” Aziraphale said, looking down at his hands where they were folded in his lap. “I try not to fraternize with hu—customers.” Aziraphale shot him a glance and then started fidgeting in his seat. “Current company excluded. Not that we’re...I mean to say that we became friends quite on accident. Not that there’s—I’m not trying to—”

Ignoring a twinge of disappointment, Crowley waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, I know what you mean. We’re friends. Not...not…’s different.”

Aziraphale was very pink when he said quietly, “Yes. You’re quite different.”

Crowley realized how much he liked that shade of pink, offset by the way the wine had stained Aziraphale’s lips just slightly. “Different, am I? A little bit special?” he teased, curling his tongue behind his teeth and raising his eyebrows playfully.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes—affectionately!—and said, “What you are, is a pain.”

Crowley grinned, his insides feeling very fizzy. He’d been drunk often enough. His insides had never felt fizzy before. “Go on, tell me more about how much you like me.”

Aziraphale smiled back so brightly—but then it faltered, disappearing like the sun being hidden behind clouds. “I should - I should get to bed. Would you be alright seeing yourself home?”

Crowley looked at him in dismay, wanting to kick himself for being too flirtatious. He’d ruined the moment.

“Oh, what am I saying, you’re clearly in no fit state. Will you be alright on my sofa?” Aziraphale asked, that little wrinkle between his eyebrows that meet he was concerned but trying not to show it. In any other situation, Crowley could have sobered up and seen himself home. But he couldn’t exactly explain that to Aziraphale.

Then Aziraphale’s hands were on him—warm and sturdy and comforting—and he was being leaned back on soft cushions. “Let me get you some blankets. Oh! And water!”

Crowley watched the angel bustle off, eyelids growing heavy. He shouldn’t fall asleep. Sleep was bad. Yeah. Bad.

But then Aziraphale was back, tucking an obscenely soft tartan monstrosity of a blanket around Crowley as he murmured little assurances.

“You’ll be alright. Just like that,” Aziraphale said with a smile that was like a shot of adrenaline straight to Crowley’s heart. “Rest well, dear.”

Even with his heart racing after that devastating expression, Crowley felt sleep drag at him until his eyes shut and he let the warmth of the blanket, and the smell of safety and bergamot take him under.

* * *

Crowley woke to the sound of shattering glass, and sat upright in confusion. Bookshop. Bookshop?

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale said from the other side of a bookshelf. Closer to his desk by the sound of it.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked tentatively. He forcibly changed his eyes and grunted at the sensation. Sort of felt like someone was tickling his eyeballs.

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale said, coming around the corner. “You’re awake! Are you feeling quite alright?”

“Right as rain,” Crowley grumbled, rubbing the strange sensation from his eyes. He must have been a bit hungover.

The morning light was filtering through the domed skylights and casting Aziraphale in gold. He looked down at Crowley, an amused curl to his mouth. “Is someone not a morning person?”

“You’re not a morning person,” Crowley grumbled, standing up and letting the blanket fall to the cushions.

Aziraphale tutted at him. “No need to be rude,” he said as he stepped closer to pick up the blanket and fold it over his arm.

Crowley stood and did his best to straighten out his clothes. They were terribly wrinkled. Bloody great. Get wasted and pass out on a target’s couch instead of going about seducing him the way you meant to.

“Guess I should get out of your hair,” Crowley said, rolling his neck before retrieving his sunglasses from the side table.

“Or,” Aziraphale began softly, drawing Crowley’s attention. “You could stay. We could get breakfast.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were the clearest blue—how did they always change?—and Crowley felt something inside himself give, the tension and regret flooding out of him.

“Yeah, Aziraphale, yeah. I’d like that.”

Aziraphale smiled. His eyes crinkled. And Crowley’s heart skipped another beat.

* * *

Crowley took the escalator to Hell with Aziraphale’s file in hand and frustration in his heart. It was too much. He couldn’t do this. The assignment hadn’t been fair from the start. He had three months left on his timeline and it was impossible.

That and – it didn’t feel right. It had stopped feeling right because – well, it had been a difficult assignment. Yeah, difficult.

He marched to Beelzebub’s office and didn’t even wait to be called in.

“Crowley!” Beelzebub squawked in horror just as a flash of lightning illuminated the room, nearly blinding Crowley with its brightness.

“How dare you come in here?” Beelzebub buzzed, flies about their head swirling in tight circles as their eyes darted from the corner of their office back to Crowley.

Crowley scoffed, peeved enough to lose any of his normal desire to suck up to his boss. “I can’t do this.”

Beelzebub crossed their arms over their chest and raised one eyebrow. “You will.”

“It’s not working,” Crowley grated out, spine tingling with rage. “He’s an angel. This was never going to work.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “Stop complaining. And. Get. It. Done.”

“Fine,” he snapped and, at Beelzebub’s irate expression, he turned on his heel and walked away, a sick feeling rising in his stomach. This was fine. He was just afraid of getting desk duty. That was it.

* * *

Feeling frustrated and thrown off his game by his meeting with Beelzebub, Crowley put on his lowest cut v-neck—the one that showed off just a kiss of chest hair— and his tightest jeans. If he had been in the seduction game over the last decade, this would have been his go-to outfit.

He looked at himself in the mirror and frowned. This would work for a bit of the rough and tumble but for Aziraphale? Groaning, he pulled off the shirt and manifested a dark gray button down with black paisley insets in the collar.

Apparently, it was the right choice, because Aziraphale’s face lit up when he stepped into the bookshop. Reaching out, Aziraphale, tugged on Crowley’s collar as if to straighten it. “This is very smart,” he remarked as he smoothed a hand over Crowley’s shoulder, sending those disconcerting tingles over Crowley’s skin.

“Thanks,” Crowley said, trying not to preen too much. “New bow tie?”

Aziraphale looked down as if forgetting what he was wearing. “Oh, this old thing? I’m sure I’ve had it for years.”

“Well, I’ve never seen it,” Crowley said. “The blue’s nice. Goes with your eyes.”

Crowley knew he was supposed to say things like that in this game of careful wooing but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel like an idiot every time.

He was rewarded with one of Aziraphale’s light blushes as the angel’s chin dipped and he looked away. When he moved his head like that, a little roll of fat appeared. Crowley wanted to kiss it. Maybe run his tongue over Aziraphale’s pulse, kiss up his neck until the angel’s hands fell to his hair, holding him in place so he could nibble on that perfect spot beneath his ear. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat, distracting Crowley from his very vivid fantasy.

“You said there was an art opening?”

“Right, yeah, erm, let’s go.” Crowley opened the door and waited for Aziraphale to pass through.

The gallery was full of postmodern art that had them both rolling their eyes. A stack of garbage glued to a ladder was the final straw and Aziraphale tugged him from the building.

“No more of that, thank you,” he said primly.

“Dinner, then?” Crowley offered, not wanting the night to end. He had more things on the agenda. He was going to start initiating physical affection. He’d wait on kissing. He didn’t think they were there yet. But maybe a few hand brushes. Thigh touches.

Just the thought made his knees lock with nerves.

Aziraphale led him to a little hole in the wall Indian place that ended up having the best channa masala Crowley had ever tasted. Aziraphale had looked at him smugly when he said as much.

“I do know my way around food, my dear,” he said, and he looked so pleased Crowley couldn’t even come up with a response.

Crowley figured the night would be over after they paid the bill, so he was pleasantly surprised when Aziraphale invited him into the bookshop to share a bottle of wine.

Crowley didn’t have to be asked twice.

It was like any other time they’d settled into the bookshop for long conversations, except that this time Aziraphale sat next to him on the sofa. Crowley had to stifle a grin. Something he was doing was working and now he just needed to figure out what. Maybe slow and steady really was the way with this angel.

They were laughing about the disastrous art exhibit— _Why do modern artists call all their work_ Untitled _? Seems to be missing the point—_ when Aziraphale brushed his hand over Crowley’s. “My dear, this has been a lovely evening.”

Some latent instinct in Crowley reared its head and he tried to lurch forward to kiss Aziraphale, dropping his wineglass in his lap in the process.

“Shit!” he grabbed the wine glass and leaped to his feet but his belly and lap were soaked. Aziraphale was by his side and taking the glass away in under a moment. Pulling out a handkerchief, he dabbed at Crowley’s stomach with one hand, the other settling on his hip to hold him steady. The touch of his hands sent those familiar tingles across his skin. He sucked in a sharp breath, shocked at the intensity of it.

Aziraphale looked up at him, the little adorable crease Crowley was so fond of— _fond of?!—_ forming between his eyebrows before he stepped back as if burned. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t think it might make you uncomfortable if I…”

Crowley followed after him, reaching out to pull him closer before stopping himself. What _was_ this?

“Here,” Aziraphale said, pressing the half-soaked cloth into his hand. “Let me get you something to wear and we can get that in the wash.”

Crowley stood there, trying to breathe, while Aziraphale rushed away. He wondered if Aziraphale really did have a flat upstairs and it hadn’t just been hot air.

He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. If only he could use his powers, this would never have been an issue—Crowley dropped things all the time, but they never had the audacity to fall _on_ him. He plucked at the vest he wore under the shirt. The fabric over his belly was stained purple and the wine soaking through it was steadily getting cold, so he pulled it over his head. He tried wiping down his trousers with the handkerchief, only to give up when the thing soaked through almost immediately.

Aziraphale returned, all hustle and bustle. “I’m so sorry my dear, I—”

He froze in the door, mouth slightly open before he looked down at the pile of clothes in his hand. “Oh.”

That...powers or no...was lust. Crowley smiled and felt almost like himself again.

Aziraphale swallowed visibly, cheeks turning pink. “Yes, erm, you can go upstairs to the WC. First door on the left. And change there.”

And maybe Crowley put a bit of extra swing in his hips when he left the room even if he wasn’t certain Aziraphale would notice. Now he knew he held _some_ allure for Aziraphale. Or at least he was fairly certain.

Once he was locked away in the miniscule bathroom upstairs, Crowley took a deep breath.

Crowley shucked off his trousers and then looked at the clothes Aziraphale had provided. Half-expecting them to be miracled and just the right size, he paused when they unfurled in a distinctively Aziraphalean size and shape. His heart did a strange thing in his chest as he took in the clothes. A pair of light blue striped sleeping pants that looked like something out of a matched set from the 50s and a very lumpy oatmeal colored jumper that looked warm. Cozy.

Crowley stomach felt so strange that he thought he might vomit right then and there.

After taking several long breaths, Crowley pulled the sleeping pants on. They were far too big but they had a drawstring that allowed Crowley to tie them tightly, and when he pulled the jumper over his head, its wide sleeves came down to kiss the backs of his hands. It was so soft and it smelled like bergamot. Just like the angel.

Crowley had to take a few more breaths because the feeling in his gut had to be nausea.

A light tap at the door drew his attention.

“Crowley? Would you like me to put your trousers in the wash?” Aziraphale asked, voice muffled through the wood of the door.

Right. Crowley had a job to do.

“Thanks,” Crowley said, opening the door. “Probably should. They’re soaked.”

Aziraphale froze in the hallway, staring at him.

“Do I look that good?” Crowley asked with a lopsided grin. His stomach was still rioting and he was starting to realize it hurt in a way that almost felt nice. It felt exciting.

Aziraphale started to turn red, stammering through some half-formed response that Crowley could barely hear because despite how long he’d been telling himself to wait, he found he couldn’t anymore, closing the space between them and brushing his lips over Aziraphale’s.

The angel gasped and Crowley pressed closer, the tingling he always felt when they touched coming over him tenfold as his stomach grew hot and he felt a stirring between his legs.

Realization hit him like a particularly heavy brick lobbed from a close distance and he pulled back.

Aziraphale’s shocked expression meant that he should make excuses, apologize, but he was too caught up in the realization that _he was attracted to Aziraphale_ to make any noise come out of his mouth other than a startled “Oh.”

When was the last time he’d been physically attracted to a target? He cast back through the millennia and came up blank.

Of course it would be Aziraphale. Why did he have to _like_ the bloody angel and—and actually _want_ to have sex with him?!

 _Inconvenient, is what it is_ , he thought hysterically.

Aziraphale looked at him with wide eyes and then practically leapt at him, hands fisting in his shirt to drag him in for another kiss. Pressing Crowley back against the door frame, Aziraphale opened his mouth under him, letting Crowley slip his tongue inside to taste—and when Aziraphale tentatively flicked his tongue against Crowley’s, he felt like his spine might melt. And then Aziraphale was pulling away—so far away—blushing and stammering, “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have – that probably wasn’t a good idea.”

“Maybe not,” Crowley said, sounding too breathless. Not wanting to speak anymore, he captured Aziraphale’s mouth in another kiss. And Aziraphale sighed, kissing him back. For a moment, he couldn’t remember any other kiss he’d ever had. It was just this, Aziraphale’s nose pressed against his cheek, Aziraphale’s stomach pressed against his, Aziraphale’s hands fisted in Crowley’s ugly oatmeal jumper.

Crowley reached out and put his hands on Aziraphale’s belt, but the angel stiffened.

Crowley—demon or no—wasn’t about to push past that, so he let his hands fall to his sides.

“Sorry, got carried away,” Crowley heard himself say, sounding honestly apologetic. Which was good. If he respected Aziraphale’s boundaries then the angel would respect _him_ which could only be a good thing. It was—practical.

Aziraphale eyes darted away. “It’s quite alright. I’m simply not certain if we should—well. I am glad to know this feeling is mutual but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. There are some things you don’t know about me and I’m afraid you may…feel differently if you knew.”

Crowley suddenly remembered that Aziraphale thought he was human. Ah fuck, no wonder he was hesitant. There had been that huge issue with the other side all those years ago. Angels getting off with humans and all. Aziraphale must be afraid about what it meant to be an angel and desire a human in this day and age but from what Crowley remembered of the Nephilim debacle it wasn’t so much carnal relations as procreation with humans that was forbidden. And procreation wasn’t exactly a risk here.

He just had to work a little harder. The way Aziraphale had looked at him, shocked and hungry. The way he had kissed Crowley, so tentative and gentle yet needy.

He was halfway there.

Crowley forced an understanding expression on his face as he tried to look more besotted. “Whatever it is, I doubt it will change how I feel”—which was true, Crowley already knew—“Why don’t we take things slow? See where it goes?”

Aziraphale’s smile bloomed once more and he took Crowley’s hand. “You wouldn’t mind? I do so – I care about you a great deal.”

Crowley’s heart was strangling itself in his chest. He was certain it was no longer beating as he choked out, “Yeah, of course. I mean – same here. I’m not an arse.”

Arguable.

Aziraphale laughed like Crowley was being adorably ridiculous and Crowley had a very complicated reaction to the sound. Was that what it had been this whole time? Not some magical power of angel laughter, something as simple as Crowley being attracted to him?

“Why don’t we go back downstairs and finish that wine?” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps you could keep it in the glass this time?”

Aziraphale was attracted to him. Probably. Crowley was attracted to Aziraphale. That last one was a bit of a disaster, but Crowley could handle it. Sex with a target was just sex. He’d done it thousands of times when he didn’t want to and that wasn’t scary. This was obviously not scary either. Wanting Aziraphale was better than not wanting him. Definitely.

Pushing aside his newfound feelings, Crowley tried to remind himself that this was a huge success. Operation Angel Seduction was now greenlit.

So why did he feel sick?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for this chapter for 2 allusions to dubcon:  
> 1) Crowley doesn't pay attention to consent cues with Aziraphale (but doesnt push past a firm no)  
> 2) Crowley considers using his powers to seduce someone
> 
> **  
> beta'ed by poetic_nonsense and amberm7 who have been fantastic cheerleaders and helped believe there was a light in the darkness with i thought this fic was absolute trash and half. without them, it would not be nearly as put together as it is now

So kissing was a thing they did now. Crowley discovered this the next time he walked into the bookshop and Aziraphale greeted him with a peck on the cheek that had Crowley clutching at the wall like he might fall over. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale had said, grabbing at his arm to keep him from falling into one of the decorative columns. “Is that too much? Should I not…”

“Hngggg,” Crowley managed.

Aziraphale gave him one of his nervous smiles which had Crowley throwing caution to the wind, as he grabbed Aziraphale’s face with both hands and kissed him directly on the mouth.

“Startled me, is all,” Crowley said when he pulled back. Aziraphale had reached up to encircle his wrists with his soft hands.

“I think I’m finding you startle quite easily,” Aziraphale said, eyes teasing. The nerves were gone from his expression, replaced with bright affection as he tilted his cheek briefly into Crowley’s palm.

Crowley’s heart felt so big he thought it might break right out of his body if he didn’t do something to put a stop to it. In a desperate plea for relief, he kissed Aziraphale again and the feeling subsided, only to be replaced by a fluttering in his stomach.

Aziraphale pulled away first. “Not that this isn’t very nice, but I believe we had plans?”

“Right, yeah,” Crowley said, feeling a bit choked. “Reservations.”

When they stepped onto the pavement, Aziraphale tangled their hands together and Crowley became worried that his stomach might never recover from all this time around Aziraphale. Not if it didn’t settle down eventually.

* * *

Crowley was cleaning his flat. He never cleaned his flat. It never needed cleaning. But now Aziraphale was coming over and all Crowley could think was how stupid his desk chair was and how the whole place looked like it had never seen a human touch. It was cold and ugly and Aziraphale would _hate_ it.

He summoned some throw pillows (red and black, because he wasn’t about to succumb to Aziraphale’s tartan obsession) and some inoffensive art for the wall. He hid his Mona Lisa sketch and transported his throne into a closet.

He put a used tumbler in the sink to make the kitchen look less immaculate. It was all he could do.

And then Aziraphale was in his flat. He was stepping through the stupid industrial door and shrugging off his warm coat to hang on Crowley’s stupid ornate coat rack. He was looking up at the stupid austere skylight with curiosity and spotting Crowley’s stupid little alcove filled with stupid plants.

He flitted over to them immediately. Crowley should have known. One spot of color and Aziraphale was after it like a moth to a flame.

“Oh, my dear, look at you,” he said to a calla lily before looking back at Crowley with shining eyes. “Crowley, these are lovely.”

Crowley tried not to fidget. “Yeah, er...I like plants?”

Aziraphale laughed once, pure and clear and so beautiful that Crowley thought he might need to lay down. Or do something, anything, to make Aziraphale make that sound again.

“It seems you do, darling”—oh fuck, _darling—_ “I don’t think you’ve ever told me that you liked them quite so much.”

Crowley shrugged, thoughts still spinning out like tires with no tread. “S’just a hobby.”

“Well, I think it’s lovely,” Aziraphale said firmly with one last smile for the plants before turning to the rest of the apartment. Crowley followed him with mounting dread. Aziraphale was going to hate it. He was going to give Crowley a fake smile and say something insincere.

He watched as Aziraphale stepped into the living room and once more regretted his cold leather sofa, the cut glass of his coffee table. Everything was steel and black and cruel in its harshness.

Aziraphale put one hand to his chest as if overwhelmed and Crowley braced himself for the tide of judgment.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, turning back to Crowley with a genuine smile that lanced right through Crowley. “You have a beautiful home. It’s just like you.”

Crowley gaped. What did that even mean?

Aziraphale continued speaking, maybe in response to Crowley’s expression. Crowley didn’t know. He was too busy staring at Aziraphale, who was trailing his fingers over the back of the couch, touching the bookshelf where Crowley kept his haphazard collection. He touched every bit like it was fascinating. Like it was precious.

“Harsh on the outside, but welcoming once you let someone in.”

Oh, _fuck_.

Crowley strode across the room and grabbed Aziraphale’s hips, tugging him hard against his body so he could kiss the life out of him.

The sharp change in position had Aziraphale grunting in surprise, but then he relaxed in Crowley’s grip, mouth going slack so Crowley could kiss him, long and deep. When Aziraphale tentatively returned the kiss, tongue carefully touching his, hesitant and unsure, Crowley felt his whole body light up.

He pushed Aziraphale down onto the couch and climbed into his lap, barely breaking the kiss. He couldn’t possibly break it, not with Aziraphale growing more confident by the second, hands sliding over Crowley’s back like he wanted him closer, somehow both desperate and careful like _Crowley_ was precious.

Aziraphale felt amazing under him. The push of his belly against Crowley’s abdomen, his soft curls in Crowley’s hands, the firm grip of his fingers settling around Crowley’s hips as Crowley rocked into him.

Aziraphale tilted his head back, ending the kiss and forcing a whine out of Crowley’s throat. Still moving his hips slowly—he felt so tantalizingly close to something life-altering—Crowley ducked his head and pressed a kiss to the place where Aziraphale’s soft jaw met this neck, just below the delicate shell of his ear. One hot palm came up to caress the hair at his nape as Aziraphale breathed, “Darling, please.”

Crowley nipped Aziraphale’s earlobe. This was so, so good. Better than anything. Sex had never been like this before. It had never had this fire, this need. Was this what it was like for humans? For people when they were attracted to each other? Maybe that’s why they sought it out so much, why it had been so easy to get them into bed.

Aziraphale tugged him back—away—preternaturally strong, and said, “Crowley, I can’t.”

Crowley froze, his body still strung so tight that it felt like one perfect movement could snap him.

“Why?” Crowley asked. His voice was deep and cracked, broken black glass. “We could be so good. I could make it good.”

“I’m sure you could,” Aziraphale said and he didn’t sound much better than Crowley and that gruff voice did all sorts of wonderful things to Crowley’s insides. Fuck, he wanted Aziraphale to touch him. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea. We should slow down.”

Crowley tipped his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m pushing. Sorry. I said I wouldn’t.”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said. He looked defeated and all Crowley wanted to do was kiss him again. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley peeled himself off Aziraphale—with extreme regret, all the while wishing he could do something about his painfully obvious erection—and flopped onto the couch beside him. “What are you sorry for?”

Aziraphale didn’t speak for a moment and when he did, it was in a small voice that ripped Crowley’s heart right from his body. “Would you leave if I was never ready?”

Crowley should say something like, _we’ll work it out together_. Or _I’m sure you’ll be ready eventually_. But instead, what came out of his mouth was something horrifying.

“I don’t think I could ever leave you.”

He wanted to curl up into a ball. Cover his face with his hands. Sit in a corner and think about what he’d done.

But if he did any of those things he’d miss the way Aziraphale’s face transformed, those lovely crinkles around his eyes reappearing as he beamed at Crowley. “You know, when I met you I didn’t realize how sweet you were.”

“M’not sweet,” Crowley muttered petulantly, and Aziraphale responded by reaching out and cupping his jaw with his hand. Crowley melted. If Aziraphale was going to look at him like that then he could call him anything he wanted.

“Yes, you are,” Aziraphale said before pulling him into a soft, chaste kiss that set off another round of butterflies—sodding _butterflies?—_ in Crowley’s stomach.

When he sat back, Crowley cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

“Movie then?” he prompted and Aziraphale laughed lightly.

“Play on,” the angel said with a grand gesture, and so Crowley did.

* * *

They were snogging in the back of the bookshop. It was even better than snogging in Crowley’s flat, because the whole place smelled like warm delicious angel. It was also better because Aziraphale was laid out beneath him like a veritable banquet and he’d let Crowley take off his bow tie and just there at the opening of his shirt was a flash of white chest hair that Crowley wanted to feel under his tongue. His braces were loose and they tangled in Crowley’s fingers just right as he rocked against Aziraphale’s body, feeling an answering hardness against his own.

Crowley had managed to remove his coat and was down to his and trousers and black henley— which was thin enough that he could feel the heat of Aziraphale’s hands through the fabric every time he touched him. And, oh, how he touched him. One hand on his spine and then his hip and then trailing down his chest, making Crowley feel like he could crawl out of his skin with want. 

Then Aziraphale pulled away again. Crowley tried not to whine. Things were just getting good. Aziraphale tried to sit up, but Crowley pushed him back down and kissed his neck, one hand on his chest as he snaked his hand between their bodies to grasp at –

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snapped, pushing Crowley onto his back before he sat up fully, looking red in the face and almost…angry.

Upset. He looked upset.

Something inside Crowley shrank and scuttled away, hiding its face in shame. He pulled his legs up to his chest, trying to put as much space between him and Aziraphale as possible. He’d fucked up. “I’m sorry. Sorry.”

Aziraphale’s chest was expanding and contracting and Crowley was staring, feeling those exhalations sync with his heart beat as his stomach did cartwheels. The shame inside him took root and bloomed, filling every dark crevice.

“My fault,” Crowley said, wanting to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. No. Too dramatic. This wasn’t about him. _Useless._

Aziraphale shook his head, looking anywhere but at Crowley. “No…it’s…perhaps we should return to taking our rendezvous in a more public location.”

Crowley froze. That was bad. How was he supposed to inch them forward if they were never alone? “No, it’s, we can – I can keep my hands to myself. I just…want you. Forgot we were going slow.”

Aziraphale stared at him with wide, trusting eyes that continued to shake Crowley to his core. “You really are something else,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

The tension in Crowley released and when Aziraphale took his hand, he felt like crying with relief. Something warm started to pass through Crowley’s body, burning out the dark cold shame. It felt safe and...loving.

“I forgive you, darling,” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley down and against his chest. It was so soft and Crowley sighed into it. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the top of his head and Crowley’s eyelids fluttered shut.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley murmured and Aziraphale froze under him. Oh shit.

“What did you say?” Aziraphale asked in a shaky voice.

“Er,” Crowley said, tucking his face into Aziraphale’s waistcoat to muffle his words like it would be an excuse for his monumental slip up. “Thanks, Aziraphale. Why?”

Aziraphale relaxed minutely. “Ah, nothing. I must have misheard.”

Crowley ignored the sick feeling inside him at the prospect of lying to Aziraphale over something so ridiculously small as a word. He tried to sink back into the warmth of Aziraphale’s embrace.

But the shame and fear had started to return and all the while underneath, all Crowley could feel was _want_ , a hungry urge in his gut that cried out for more. 

It must be lust that made him lose control like that. He just needed a shag. It was the only thing that made sense.

* * *

Crowley just needed to take the edge off. Sure it had been a long time since he’d craved sex— he couldn’t remember the last time actually—but surely a good fuck would help Crowley control himself around Aziraphale. He was pushing too hard and he knew it. He was set to ruin the assignment if he went on like this.

So Crowley put on his tightest jeans and went out. He’d pull someone and call it a night.

Leaning against the sticky bartop at the latest hip club, Crowley sighed. He’d forgotten how much he hated this. It was undulating bodies, a room so full of lust that Crowley could taste it. The booze was always bad and it was terribly boring to watch humans try to snog each other.

He found himself thinking about the warm light of the bookshop. The feeling of Aziraphale’s hand, soft in his.

He slammed back his drink. He was here to think about something else.

Scanning the room, he saw a decently attractive woman seated by the bar, alone. Did he want a woman? Maybe something as far away from Aziraphale as possible would wipe the thoughts from Crowley’s mind.

So he approached this thin brunette woman and did his best to strike up a conversation. “Drinking alone?” he asked, sliding onto the barstool beside her.

She looked up and her forehead wrinkled, looking distinctly unimpressed. “I’m sure you have some slick thing to say to follow that up with but I’m not particularly in the mood. Sorry.”

Crowley held up his hands in defeat. “Won’t say anything then. I was drinking alone. Saw you were too. That’s the long and short of it.”

Only a little bit of a lie.

She eyed him suspiciously and stirred her drink with her straw. “Right.”

Crowley hummed and took a sip of his own drink. Maybe if he used a little power –

“What brings you here to drink alone then?” she asked and there was the in. 

“Needed a distraction,” he admitted. Another flash of golden hair and soft crinkling eyes. He pushed the image away.

“Getting over someone?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Er, not exactly.” Crowley didn’t like the direction of this conversation.

“I am,” she said wryly, tossing back the rest of her drink.

“Oh.”

Well, Crowley didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t exactly an expert on heartbreak.

“Being in love sucks,” she said as she gestured to the bartender for a refill. “All that…feeling inside you. I’m out here to feel a little less of it.”

Crowley laughed. He hadn’t exactly put words to it, but that was what he was after too.

“It’s just,” she said vehemently, turning back to Crowley like he was the sensitive ear she’d always wanted, “I always felt so safe around her. Just being in the same room as her – it was like the air wasn’t in it. There wasn’t anything I wanted to look at as much as her even if looking at her made me feel like I wanted to barf or…or pass out.”

Crowley stopped breathing. That sounded…

“Probably for the best. I doubt you should feel that much for a single person. It can’t be healthy. Do you think love is like that for everyone? I’d never felt it until her,” she said morosely, poking at the ice in her recently refilled drink with her straw.

“I don’t – I don’t – I don’t know,” Crowley stuttered numbly. “I’ve never been in love. Didn’t think it was real.”

“Lucky you,” she said bitterly.

* * *

Crowley didn’t pull anyone. He went home and drank a bottle of whiskey on his couch while rewatching that same Meg Ryan movie.

And to his horror, it made sense.

Fuck Meg Ryan. And fuck Billy Crystal.

And fuck being in love.

* * *

Crowley went to the bookshop for his weekly Wednesday dinner. The disaster of a snogging session had happened the Friday prior and the Realization had occurred two days later. Ever since that awful day, Crowley had been wandering London in a fugue state. He kept thinking he saw wisps of beloved blonde hair or heard the low bell that was Aziraphale’s laugh.

He was pathetic.

He was in love.

His hands shook as he pushed open the bookshop. He’d done this plenty of times now. Plenty. He took a deep breath and stepped into the shop.

Aziraphale was at his desk, scribbling away at his ledger and when he looked up at the tinkling of the bell, his eyes crinkled behind the tiny lenses of his glasses and Crowley near fell over under the wave of lust and comfort and joy he felt.

Love.

Bloody _love_.

He couldn’t fucking _believe_ it.

Smile dipping into a frown, Aziraphale stood. “Crowley, are you quite alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, waving a hand and taking a step back. “M’perfect. Just not, y’know…”

“No, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said as his eyebrows drew together. His beautifully manicured hands came to rest, folded, in front of the soft swell of his belly and Crowley nearly combusted when he imagined dropping to his knees and kissing each knuckle of those gorgeous hands.

With mounting horror, Crowley realized that he could drop to his knees. He could kiss those knuckles. But if he did, every bit of it would be a lie. Because he’d lied to Aziraphale. Had been lying to Aziraphale from the start and he—

“Well,” Crowley said, already tripping backwards. “Lovely to see you. As always. I’ve got to – yes. Forgot the, er, stove.”

Aziraphale stepped forward, hands coming out as if to pull Crowley in and Crowley stumbled out of the door and rushed down the street.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t lie anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by [poetic_nonsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_nonsense/pseuds/poetic_nonsense) and amberm7
> 
> posting sooner than I intended because i finished another WIP (regency ineffable wives!) and wanted to celebrate by completing another!

Crowley sat on the floor of his flat, his back pressed against the foot of his couch, as he threw a tennis ball at the wall, relishing the loud bang when it connected before it bounced back into his hand.

He was a mess.

He had come home from the bookshop the day before with his tail between his legs. Aziraphale had called him twice. He’d ignored it. The voicemails had near broken his heart.

_Crowley...Anthony...I hope you’re alright. You ran off so soon and I missed you at lunch. I know we had a slight...hiccup but I hope you know that it hasn’t changed my regard for you. Please ring me when you get this._

Crowley couldn’t bring himself to delete it.

_Crowley. It’s Aziraphale. I haven’t heard from you and if I’m honest I’m a bit concerned. I usually wouldn’t mind a bit of radio silence it’s just...your behavior yesterday was awfully concerning. Can you...can you just let me know if you’re alright?_

His deadline was less than a month away. A year he’d said and Beelzebub had taken him at his word.

He needed to tell Aziraphale. Maybe if he told him they could work it out together. Run off or maybe…

It felt hopeless.

The doorbell rang and Crowley knew immediately who it was. Demons didn’t use the doorbell and it’s not like he had _friends_. Unthinking, he rushed to answer it—leftover habits of letting Aziraphale into his flat so many times. It was stupid because he was in his silk pajamas and robe and his hair was a mess and he realized he’d forgottdn to transform his eyes just as he pulled open the door, managing to slam his powers through himself fast enough to make them look human before Aziraphale even saw him

“My dear, are you ill?” Aziraphale asked, forehead drawn down in concern as he wrung his hands in front of him.

Crowley shook his head. He felt like the air had been punched out of him by his sudden use of power. He probably did look a little green.

“M’fine. Been...er, busy.”

Looking at Aziraphale after his terrifying realization wasn’t any better than his power induced nausea. He felt kicked in the chest. Pummelled.

Aziraphale frowned and then his eyes darted away. He looked hurt. “I suppose now that I know you’re alright, I can leave you be. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Aziraphale passed his hand over the soft fabric of his waistcoat and squared his shoulders before turning to go. Crowley stopped him.

“No. It’s not—you’re not an intrusion. I just...things have been—I’m glad you’re here,” he finally settled on. “Would you like to come in?”

“Erm, yes, if you’d like.” Aziraphale fiddled with his coat and Crowley wanted to take his hands, soothe his nerves. But his own nerves would hardly allow it.

“I _would_ like,” Crowley said, some semblance of normalcy returning, a miniscule point of clarity in a storm. Aziraphale was here and being kind and maybe Crowley should focus on that. “Let me just, er, put the kettle on.”

Aziraphale trailed after him, settling onto his couch. The one Crowley had laid him down on not a week ago as they kissed and touched. Before Crowley had realized he was in love with him.

In the safety of the kitchen, Crowley swore and threw one of his tea towels in frustration. Why was this happening? Why Aziraphale? His options were limited now. Complete the assignment and go on with his miserable excuse of an existence. Sod the assignment, tell Aziraphale the truth and hope they could figure it out.

To be honest, when had he ever cared about his assignments? He cared about Aziraphale and that was answer enough.

Crowley left the kettle to boil and returned to Aziraphale, ready to have it out. He found the angel fiddling with his pocket watch and staring into space.

“Are you alright?” he asked hesitantly.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and spoke words that Crowley had never expected to hear.

“My dear, I’m in love with you.”

Crowley’s heart was hot in his chest, filling with air and threatening to crack him open entirely. Or maybe he needed to throw up.

“Perhaps it’s sudden but when you ran off, I couldn’t stop thinking of you. And it’s ridiculous because we weren’t even supposed to be friends. And then we _were_ and you were, oh, you were so perfect and understanding and you didn’t think I was flighty or boring and I think I forgot that it’s not my place to want you the way I do.”

He grasped for the right thing to say—should he say he loved him too? Should he comfort him? He felt out of control of his body, his thoughts coming in a wild rush.

Aziraphale sniffled before looking away and taking a deep breath. “I believe there’s—there’s something I need to tell you before this goes any further. It’s why I was so hesitant to start this in the first place and I’m worried...you shouldn’t be with me until you know the truth. I should have had more restraint and I feel I’ve been utterly unfair to you.”

Crowley froze. Was Aziraphale about to – No. An angel wouldn’t.

Aziraphale looked away from him, eyes fluttering back and forth like he was nervous. “I’m going to tell you something and I think you may find it difficult to believe. But I can – I can prove it to you.”

Crowley stared at him, unable to process a response. Aziraphale trusted him enough to – to –

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale stood. “Crowley – Anthony – I’m an angel.”

Crowley nearly sobbed with relief. Aziraphale was telling him, was trusting him. Surely if he shared his own secret they could...they could figure something out. Aziraphale _loved_ him.

Aziraphale was staring down at him, looking confused so Crowley grabbed his hands as he stood himself. “I know, angel. I know.”

“You _know_?” Aziraphale said, voice shrill and disbelieving. “How could you possibly _know_? That’s impossible.”

“I have something I should tell you. It’ll all make sense I swear –“

The smoke alarm went off and Crowley near jumped from his skin in fright. He’d left the blasted kettle on. Hurrying into the kitchen, he found one of his tea towels had been on the stove and had caught fire. Shit.

He kicked it to the ground and stamped out the remnants of flame and when he returned to his living room, Aziraphale was gone.

* * *

_Aziraphale - I hope you know what you told me yesterday didn’t change anything. You disappeared and I’m...I’m worried you think the worst. I’ll stop by the bookshop on Saturday. I need to tell you something too. I think...I hope it’ll make everything make sense._

* * *

When he arrived at the shop on Saturday, Aziraphale wasn’t there but the place was unlocked. Hopefully a good sign. Something along the lines of _Come in. I’ll be back_.

Crowley was waiting for Aziraphale, minding his own business, when the worst happened.

A buzz of a thousand flies followed by a crash of lightning had him slamming against the wall in shock.

Beelzebub and…was that Gabriel? What were they doing here?

“You’ve failed, Crowley,” Beelzebub said. Their flies where louder than normal and Crowley winced. “Your year is up as of”—they looked at a nonexistent watch—“three seconds ago.”

“Not failed exactly,” Crowley pointed out, trying to figure out the best way to wheedle out of this. “Just need a bit more time.”

Gabriel ran a careful hand over his hair, smoothing it back. Crowley had forgotten what a twat he was. That smarmy smile…

“We put you on this because we heard you were the best,” Gabriel said. Fuck, those teeth looked like they could crack stones if he had a mind to.

“I mean,” Crowley said, trying to affect some sort of confidence. “I’m alright. Don’t know where you’re hearing _best_ but I’m glad I have a reputa—”

“Shut up,” Gabriel sneered. He turned to Beelzebub. “You were supposed to get us a reason to suspend Aziraphale. That was the deal. You owe me those souls.”

Beelzebub turned their beetle black eyes on Crowley. “I’m disappointed in you.”

Crowley paused. Disappointed? That was it? Where was the rage? The promises of desk duty? Torture?

Beelzebub reached out and shook Gabriel’s hand, a fog forming about their clasped fingers and swirling away into nothingness.

Beelzebub yanked their hand away and shuddered before buzzing out of existence. Gabriel, however, stayed behind. He wandered to a bookshelf and plucked out a book. “Interesting. All these material possessions. Aziraphale’s quite fond of them, no?”

Crowley froze when Gabriel turned to him, eyes an ethereal purple, terrifying empty smile on his face.

“You almost had him, didn’t you,” Gabriel said, drawing close and dropping the book unceremoniously on the table.

Crowley thought wildly about how much it would upset Aziraphale to see his books treated that way.

“I - I -”

“Beelzebub may not think you can do it. But I do.” Gabriel was less than a foot away from him. He smelled like lightning and petrichor and it filled Crowley’s lungs like he was drowning in it.

“So...demon, what do you need to seal the deal?” Gabriel asked and then Crowley was certain all the air was being torn from the room. The ceiling was opening up and the light in the shop was suddenly blinding.

Crowley collapsed, shrinking into snake form. He felt like he was melting and then a voice sounded and he knew why.

_Gabriel._

That was the Voice of God.

Heart thundering in his serpentine chest, Crowley curled in on himself, small enough to fit in a boot if he had one nearby.

Gabriel looked up apprehensively and said, “Yes, Lord?”

_Are you really after this again? I told you to leave Aziraphale alone. I like the way he does my work. It’s entertaining._

Gabriel huffed and Crowley thought he might stomp his foot. Nervous, Crowley slithered between two bookshelves and curled up smaller in an attempt to hide from any wayward feet.

“It’s hardly angelic. Hoarding all these earthly things and _eating_. Sullying his body with gross matter. You can’t possibly think—”

_That’s for Me to decide, isn’t it._

Gabriel deflated. “Yes, Lord.”

_Now leave him alone. If I catch you bullying him again, I’ll put you in time-out._

Gabriel paled. “Yes, Lord. Of course.”

Gabriel disappeared in a flash of light and Crowley felt like he could breathe again.

_Crowley?_

Oh fuck fuck fuck.

He hissed apologetically in acknowledgment, entirely unable to transform back into human form and actually speak. He was sure the Almighty would understand.

 _I’m not going to Smite you. Aziraphale is fond of you and I’m fond of Aziraphale. I’ll make sure you’re not bothered while you **do something to fix this**_ **.** _So, in polite terms, don’t fuck it up._

With an audible pop, the presence of God disappeared and the bookshop returned to it’s normal musty state. Crowley, relieved, shifted back to a more human form.

“Crowley?” he heard from behind him and turned in horror as Aziraphale stepped back, eyes wide.

“Erm, when did you get back?” he tried feebly.

“What _are_ you?” Aziraphale asked, sounding heartbroken. Crowley’s stomach clenched in anguish.

“I can explain.”

“That you’re a _demon_?” Aziraphale asked. He looked ready to cry. Or throw a punch. Or maybe both. “Wait, how could I never sense you before?”

“It turns out that—”

“No,” Aziraphale said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “I can’t believe I - I don’t want to know. Get out.”

Crowley took a step forward. Aziraphale took a step back. Then the angel _did_ start to cry. “Get out. Please,” he ground out as a few tears started to track down his cheeks.

Heart turning inside out, Crowley obeyed.

* * *

Crowley was laying on his couch staring at the ceiling. His eyes hurt. He had a vague idea that he wanted to cry but his stomach ached too much for it. He couldn’t stop thinking about Aziraphale’s heartbroken expression. What would happen if Crowley showed up at the bookshop and begged for forgiveness? He could picture Aziraphale’s fiery expression, the door being slammed in his face.

Then he pictured Aziraphale’s cold greeting. Being treated like just another customer. That was even worse.

He’d been going to tell Aziraphale. He had been going to explain, and then they were going to work it out together. But maybe Crowley had been foolish. Aziraphale wouldn’t forgive this now and he wouldn’t have forgiven it then. He shouldn’t have to. Crowley had tricked him. Been awful. He’d – he’d…broken Aziraphale’s heart.

Crowley had no idea what to do so he did what he did best. He went to sleep.

* * *

Two days passed before Crowley got up, not feeling much better if he was honest with himself. He half-heartedly checked his messages, stomach curling in on itself when he found his voicemail empty. He shouldn’t have been disappointed. He should have known better than to hope.

Shuffling out into his foyer, he picked up his mister and sprayed down his plants. “Bloody pathetic, aren’t I?” Crowley murmured. He didn’t even have the energy to yell at them. He ran his fingers over the calla lillies Aziraphale had cooed over.

Fuck, he missed him. A year. He’d only known Aziraphale for a bloody year and yet here he was mooning over him.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Crowley started and nearly fell into his pot of lilies which squeaked in protest.

“Az-Aziraphale?”

With a hand full of dirt, Crowley pushed himself back into a standing position as Aziraphale watched him. The angel looked calm and collected and Crowley had no idea if that was a bad thing.

“You’re he-here,” Crowley stammered, trying to wipe off the dirt and only succeeding in smearing mud on his trousers. He grimaced.

“Explain yourself,” Aziraphale said tightly. His face was a series of thin, immutable lines that Crowley wanted to reach out and smooth away.

“Explain?”

“Yes. I want to know exactly why a _demon_ was trying to seduce me for the last year. Were you trying to make me Fall? Get some sort of commendation? Was it just”—Aziraphale stuttered over a short gasp like he might cry— “for _fun_? Are you that cruel?”

“It was an assignment,” Crowley admitted. He’d thought he couldn’t feel any lower and yet...

Aziraphale blinked. “Assignment?”

“Yes. Apparently Gabriel—who is still a fucking prick if you ask me—wanted to get you suspended? Tried to pay Hell to get someone to shag you.”

“Pay - pay Hell. That’s not possible…”

“Well, I saw Beelzebub and Gabriel shake hands and exchange souls so I’m pretty sure it is.”

“And you—”

“Yes, I was the one who was supposed to do it.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale looked at his feet and sucked in a shuddering breath. “I cannot believe I thought any of this was real. I am such a fool.”

He disappeared.

Crowley looked at the spot where he had been standing and then looked at his plants.

What would Meg Ryan do?

* * *

“Aziraphale!” Crowley said, banging on the door to the bookshop. Realistically, he could open it with his powers but boundaries and all. He’d been bad about those but never again.

One of the shades fluttered and Crowley sent out a thread of power and sure enough, that was an angel in there.

“Aziraphale! Let me in!” Crowley said. “I have chocolates and flowers and those pastries you like from Dirty Gert’s—which I still say is an awful name but the danishes are alright.”

“Go away,” Aziraphale said through the door, a muffled despondent noise.

“No,” Crowley said. “I want to explain.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Aziraphale snapped with the door still firmly shut. “Now leave.”

Crowley sighed. It was just day one of Operation Win Angel Back. He had time. And if God’s words were anything to go by, Hell would be off his back for a bit. Hopefully.

“Fine, but I’ll be back!” he yelled through the door.

“Leave the pastries.”

Crowley suppressed a smile and put the box on the stoop. “I’ll leave the rest of it too. It’s for you anyway.”

He thought he heard Aziraphale snort but he was already walking away.

Now he needed to make a plan for day two.

* * *

What followed was a week of gifts and just sitting on Aziraphale’s stoop for long periods of time, chattering at nothing and hoping the angel was inside listening. Sometimes he got a response. Normally in the form of a _please leave_. But mostly, it was nothing. Silence. And, if he was honest, it was breaking his heart.

A month went on like this and Crowley was grasping at straws. He rewatched _When Harry Met Sally_ far too many times. He may have cried but no one needed to know.

It was with a heavy heart that Crowley wrote a letter. He wasn’t good with words and his voicemails had gone unanswered. They were mostly full of incoherent rambling anyway. But a letter? In a letter, he could edit and rewrite. He could make it _good._

_Dear Aziraphale,_

_When I got this assignment, I was certain it would be the worst of my career. I thought I would fail, be punished, and mark it down as another terrible thing in my history. But then it was you. And you were fascinating. Just a bit of a bastard but also kind. So kind. Kind to me. And so clever and I should have known from the start that you were different, but I’ve always been a bit thick._

_I’ve included the file I received at the start of the assignment and a copy of every report I sent in. I’m hoping a bit of honesty will help you forgive me. Careful with them. Technically no one outside of Hell should see them but I think you should. They’re about you after all._

_There’s nothing much else I can say except I’m sorry. Because I am. Lying to you made me sick and in those last weeks I wanted nothing more than to tell you the truth, but I was so happy. And an idiot over you._

_Crowley_

After he tucked that through the mail slot in the bookshop door, he held out hope he’d hear from Aziraphale. But nothing. Still nothing.

He supposed it made sense.

With a heavy heart, he packaged up the last gift he had planned and hauled himself to the bookshop for a final baring of souls.

It was foggy and cold and miserable outside when he got there. It seemed fitting for this final effort.

“So I brought you those Winnie-the-Pooh books,” Crowley began, as conversationally as he could manage. “You liked them before and you don’t have them in your collection—honestly, I was a bit shocked when I found out. Yes, I looked because I was curious and _no,_ I didn’t knock anything over.

“The long and short of it is that—well, nothing about this will be short because we’ve both got long lives, Aziraphale. We’ve got forever. I’ll leave these here and hope that, when you look at them, you think of me because I won’t come back. I think it’s clear what you want and I want to—respect that. Respect you. ‘Cause I do. I’ll leave you be and if you ever change your mind, well—you know where to find me. I hope you find a way to be happy. More than anyone, you deserve it.

He set the wrapped box on the stoop and with one final look at Aziraphale’s posted hours—he loved that bastard so much—he turned to go.

The door creaked open.

“Get inside, you idiot.” Aziraphale sounded beleaguered but it was better than nothing.

Thrilled to pieces that the door had finally opened, Crowley rushed inside without another thought. It shut with a sharp thud and Aziraphale turned to him, mouth pursed and eyebrows raised. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Crowley froze, mind whirring through all the things he wanted to say and trying to pick one but failing. “Yeah, course I do.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened minutely and then fell back into the unreadable mask. “And?”

“And what?”

“What did you have to say?”

Crowley looked at his feet and cleared his throat but it didn’t do much to disperse the cloying sickness settling there.

“Do you remember _When Harry Met Sally_?” Crowley said. Ah, fuck. He could kick himself. Why did he start there?

Aziraphale spluttered. “You want to talk about films?”

“I have a point!”

“Fine. Yes, I remember _When Harry Met Sally_.”

“I watched it again.”

“You said you didn’t like it’s premise, that you don’t believe in love. Which I suppose makes sense now,” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley took a deep breath. It hurt to hear Aziraphale say those words but this all hurt. Push through.

“Don’t say that,” Crowley choked out.

“What? That you can’t love. I think it’s pretty clear that you can’t.”

“Well, I do,” Crowley said bitterly. Probably a bad tack but his heart hurt and he couldn’t help it. “I thought I couldn’t either but there you have it. I love. I’m in love. With you.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, mouth working, before he turned and started to pace. “That cannot be true.”

“It bloody is,” Crowley snapped. He wasn’t doing a great job at this apologizing bit. “I could run through every sodding moment where I loved you if you’d like. Took me long enough to realize that was what this was. Four thousand years I’ve been on this Earth and you made me feel things I never had before. Things I didn’t _believe_ in, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale paused in his pacing and looked back at Crowley. He thought—hoped—that he saw something soften in his expression.

“You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. Aziraphale was really looking at him, really thinking and Crowley felt a fierce swell of hope. “I mean it.”

Aziraphale groaned and stomped his foot. “I am so _angry_ with you.”

“Reasonable,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale ignored him. “I’m angry with you. I’m angry at Gabriel. I’m angry at me. I’m just...I’m just angry. It’s exhausting.”

Crowley took a step forward and counted it as a win when Aziraphale didn’t move away.

“You shouldn’t be angry with yourself. Me? Gabriel? Yeah, go ahead. But you? You don’t deserve that.”

Aziraphale’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath. He looked like he might cry again. Crowley, unfortunately, was beginning to feel similarly.

“Of course I deserve it. Did you know I - I felt relieved,” Aziraphale said, voice wavering. “When I saw you, your eyes, and knew you weren’t human, I was so relieved. Do you know how long I wrestled with my feelings for you? All I could think was that one day you would be gone and I would be left to mourn you and then I find out that no! All that pain and worry was forfeit because you were a demon. An immortal being! And I shouldn’t have been relieved that you were a demon. The enemy. But I was because I’m selfish and awful and a terrible angel.”

The fierce hope in Crowley’s chest was growing almost painful. He wanted to laugh, to yell, to jump and whoop and celebrate. Instead, he said, as earnestly as he knew how, “I think you’re probably the best one.”

Aziraphale looked at him with watery eyes and huffed a laugh.

“To be fair, I’m a rubbish demon. We can be rubbish together.”

Aziraphale reached out and then retreated. “They’re not going to be alright with this. They’ll do something awful to you.”

“Who? Heaven? Nah. God gave them a right talking to and I haven’t heard from Downstairs either. Pretty sure the old girl gave us a reprieve.”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, aghast, his mouth dropped open comically. “God...God _spoke_ with you?”

“Well, she was giving Gabriel a good reaming and I happened to be there? Seemed to think I needed to be set to rights about you.”

“What about me?”

“That if I loved you then we’d be alright,” Crowley said quietly.

Aziraphale smiled, genuine and soft and Crowley’s whole body tingled at the sight. Fuck, he loved him.

“And do you really? Love me?”

“Of course I do.”

Aziraphale laughed, high and tinny, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “How can you? I’m an angel, you’re a demon. We’re on opposite sides.”

Crowley shook his head, feeling fond and like Aziraphale was about two seconds from being in his arms again. And maybe there would be kissing. “Well, if you ask God I think she’d say we’re on our own side.”

He held out his hand and hoped Aziraphale would take it. It had been weeks since they touched and his skin was crying out for it. Hesitantly, Aziraphale tangled their hands together, staring at them in confusion mingled with hope.

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said and it wasn’t as embarrassing as the first time so he kept talking. Maybe it would get easier. “I love you. I love that you’re fussy. That you kick customers out whenever you feel like it. I love the way you get excited when you find a new book and you treat every single one like it’s precious, even the worthless ones. I love the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you smile, really smile. When you smile at _me_. You’ve got those stupid little glasses and I love those too. And your outfit. This waistcoat? Drives me mad. I love it all. I love you.”

“Is that from _When Harry Met Sally_?” Aziraphale asked, very serious, but there was a smile ticking the corner of his mouth that made Crowley fairly certain he was about to be laughed at.

Crowley grimaced. Turns out gushing about love was still embarrassing. “Sort of? Inspired by.”

Aziraphale pulled him close and laughed into his shoulder. “I love you too. And it might be a terrible idea but I would...I would like for us to be together. I’ve missed you something awful.”

Crowley pulled back minutely so he could look Aziraphale in the eye. “That’s all I want. For us to be together.”

“Can I—can I kiss you?” Aziraphale asked, sounding shy and it did all sorts of wonderful— terrible—things to Crowley’s heart.

Though he supposed none of it was terrible anymore.

“Yeah. Any time. All the time.”

Aziraphale smiled—and there were those crinkles—before leaning in and kissing him. And honestly, it was better than anything.

* * *

Aziraphale fell against the pillows, sweat glistening over his chest and making him look more ethereal than usual. “Not to be crass, but you certainly know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

“Came with the territory,” Crowley replied, kissing his way up Aziraphale’s body. Mm, delicious warm angel.

“So you really were a succubus? For how long?” Aziraphale asked and his fingers sank into Crowley’s hair when he nipped his side just right.

“Two thousand years, give or take,” Crowley said. He ran his tongue over the pillow of Aziraphale’s love handle and smirked when the angel squirmed.

“I can’t believe we never ran into each other. All those years on earth…” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley nuzzled his chest and placed a kiss on his sternum before coming to rest on top of him, body blanketing the angel’s. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him loosely.

“I doubt we ran in the same circles. You were out there doing all sorts of good deeds, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale ran a warm hand down his spine, soothing and enticing all at once. It was amazing how good sex could be when you were in love.

“Maybe we just missed each other.”

“Would’ve been nice to have met you sooner,” Crowley said, embarrassing and soppy as it was.

“I think it all worked out rather well. And, after all, we ended up here. I couldn’t ask for more,” Aziraphale said in that way that brooked no argument. Crowley felt a bit full then. He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest.

“I love you.”

Aziraphale rolled him onto his back and kissed him.

“I love you too, darling. More than anything,” the angel said, kissing carefully down his chest and sending those delicious tingles all through Crowley’s body.

Maybe being in love wasn’t too bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am beyond thrilled to have finished this fic. it went through what felt like a dozen iterations before i finally settled on what you see here. that is mostly due to my beta's who continued to remind me that this was in better shape than I thought it was. I love them to death.
> 
> Thank you for all your support on this fic! i hope the romcom ending was as romcommy as you expected! <3

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thanks for reading! <3
> 
> you can find me on tumblr [here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com)


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